


A Reason to Fight

by Cers



Series: How To Save A Wizard [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Arcane Bioweaponry, Canon Divergence, Canon-divergent from Ep 99, EGTW spoilers, Essek-Centric, Found Family, Grief, Guilt, Healing, M/M, Minor Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Minor Caduceus Clay/Fjord, Much pain but you'll be happy about it, Paaaaiiiiiiiiiin, Recovery, Unpleasant Imagery, Will eventually be the Comfort of Hurt/Comfort, discussions of torture, discussions of trauma, ignores all canon Traveller Con and Rumblecusp shenanigans, other minor pairings - Freeform, will update tags as I go, will update warnings as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27829522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cers/pseuds/Cers
Summary: Following on immediately from the events ofThat Carnivorous Dark, follow the Mighty Nein as they recover from a loss of one of their own, fight the clock against a looming deadly threat to their Dynasty allies, and figure out how to navigate Wildemount with their new status as Empire-wanted criminals.Found family first and foremost, but with much talk and thoughts about the Shadowgast Dynamic.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss
Series: How To Save A Wizard [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036797
Comments: 74
Kudos: 178





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Jester would have probably found it funny- the looks on all her friends’ faces. Standing combat-ready and mid-motion, two of them wobbled and the rest held statue-still for a few more seconds. 

She probably would have found it funny-the way that Caduceus’ nearly bumped his head on a low-hanging branch as he continues standing up from his crouch. 

Normally, she would have giggled at the way Beau’s cry leaves her mouth in a garble, the first half still echoing somewhere in another country. 

Typically, the way that Fjord’s balance is thrown off mid-step would have had her grinning ear to ear in delight, the motion comical and silly. 

At any other time, Jester would have been flushed, brightly laughing out loud at the simple ridiculousness of their justified confusion and panicked yelps. She would have been very merry indeed, as though this were nothing more than a harmless prank. 

But Jester cannot laugh, not even if she wanted to. No smile tugs her bloodied mouth. No happy sounds of any kind leave her lips. The only thing on her tongue is the tangy taste of copper and the last zing of magic as it leaves her for today. So she watches and waits. 

Soon, almost as the cohesive family unit they are, they started looking around- and then up- all at the same time. 

Above them - shining brighter than any moon or star- the welcoming haloes of their homemade lanterns shone, each wink and twinkle greeting them home. The unique lights swaying gently in the breeze, Jester watches on in awe, not quite believing yet that she managed to save them from a fight they weren’t ready for. From possibly their finishing blows. As they stood- those that could - a stiff breeze would likely topple them. 

Already kneeling, but surprisingly tense, the sight of those jars melts away so much fear from Jester and she collapses back on her heels, exhaling the biggest sigh. It’s rough and scratchy, but it leaves her torn throat in relief nonetheless. 

“What the f-”  
“How did we-?”  
“Are we _dead-?”  
_“Well, this is nice.”  
“I... don’t under-?”

Jester half-listens as her friends get their bearings, each eventually realising that they were _safe._ Their comments of relief fade into noise as she focuses elsewhere. Right now, her attention is drawn downwards at her newest friend. Carding shaky fingers through still-dripping hair, Jester cradles a disorientated Essek. Blinking in and out of wakefulness, he fixates on a jar... then away… then another light… and away. 

In a move surprising herself, she bows low over him, her midriff pinching painfully with the ghost of a fresh wound, and presses her lips to his brow. She doesn’t mean to mimic Caleb but he just- he needs- _after_ everything _he’s been through-_ in that awful, _hellish_ place-!

The sob that trembles her is racked and painful. Unable to fully escape her throat it sits there, a barbed lump clumped and tattered. The tears that gather in her eyes barely hold before already sliding down her cheeks and onto his face as she quakes and shivers. He doesn’t even flinch, he’s already lost consciousness again. Fingers hold just a little firmer to his wet hair and head. One hand moves to clutch at the cloth barely covering him. She presses the kiss harder to the damp skin of her injured friend, unwilling to let him go. 

It was too much- it’s all just- she _can’t_ \- he _just-_

“H-hey now, all right Jessie- thatta girl-”

There are arms around her- kind and gentle- attempting to pull her back but she doesn’t _want_ to let him go she _refuses_ to let him go because the last time she did he ended up - he went to- _they had to-_ she _couldn’t_ -!

“It’s all right Jester, we’ll take him from here. Beau, you got-?”

“Yeah, yeah- let’s- Yasha can you-?” 

“Of course.”

“Well uh. I think we’ll fill the hot tub. He needs to be cleaned and- and warmed.”

She has no more strength left to fight them. It had taken all she had to just- to get them- and to stay _together-_

But seeing the _lights_ … the _tree_. Feeling that familiar, pleasant breeze beneath an eternal night sky- the promise of rain on the horizon-

A final, faint, green hand gently rubs her own currently bundled in a tight fist in the rags her friend was draped in. _It’s all right,_ she could feel it saying with each sweep of the phantom thumb. _You did it. He’s safe._ You’re _safe._

They were _home_ and she could let down her guard. Just a little. 

As she did with Essek, Jester feels a soft kiss press at her temple- a ghostly gesture promising an anchor and security. 

It’s with great reluctance, and some gentle, external persuasion, but soon Jester’s hands are being uncurled from the scraps of Essek’s clothes, her lips being pulling away from his hairline. He doesn’t notice this, but he breathes a hitched sigh nevertheless. 

He breathes, she notices.

He _breathes._

And it’s this she tells herself as Yasha cradles her close and Beau leads them both from the rooftop and deeper into their personal sanctuary. 

_He breathes..._

* * *

Exhaustion doesn’t even begin to cover what Fjord feels. 

Fjord has lived a life on the sea for years. He knows the adrenal high that follows surviving a storm come the morning- after running about ship, yelling, calling, climbing, clambering, and working amidst treacherous waters. He knows viscerally the tremble of the waves as thunder rolls across the skies above, and the water threatens death below. He knows the near-misses of bolts streaking from the heavens- splashing water or cracking mast. 

Yes, those mornings after were always a different kind of excitement to calm down from. Of celebration, of survival. Of mourning the damage and perhaps lives lost. Of looking to the horizon and realising you can do _anything,_ even just for that day. Of picking yourself up and continuing, because you have to. You must. 

This was similar. He was riding this wave as long as he could. He had to see how far it could take him and then carry on the momentum best he could until he’d coast to a stop. Then, and _only_ then, would he let himself drift into slumber. 

Essek wasn’t heavy- he was … well, too _starved_ to be heavy at this point. But Fjord was injured and weakened. It wasn’t pretty, and he apologised more than once for jostling the man, but Caduceus managed to arrange Essek on Fjord’s back well enough for them to transport the Shadowhand securely.

It hurt passing by the women’s room. The door wasn't fully closed over so he could hear the soft coos of Beau and Yasha as they tended to Jester- who hiccuped and gave broken wails of relief and sorrow. Fjord grimaced, knowing that they were all feeling it, but in some collective, unspoken agreement they were all content in letting Jester break down first. The fresh image of her dress, streaked and soaked with red- 

No. Not now. Not yet. Keep it together, man. 

He watches as Caduceus, leading him like a gentle, slow shepherd down the hallway, flicked his ears at a particularly wrecked cry and nearly faltered in his limping step. There was a brief break in the clomp-clomp of his splintered staff, and Fjord frowns as he realises just how heavily Caduceus is leaning on it. 

Yeah. They’d definitely all be feeling this come the morning ‘post-storm’. 

Essek’s breathing at Fjord’s shoulder did little to help his growing anxiety. It was raspy, and unhealthy- like he was filled with seawater just needing to be pushed out of him. Fjord hoists him up again and hisses as the remnants of his slightly-healed leg remind him that he wasn’t exactly home in one piece either. 

But home they were. 

He suspects Jester’s involvement- there was something… something _familiar_ about the magic that just had her written all over it. A tingle he recognised from her healing, a uniquely identifiable buzz that accompanies her prayers of Guidance and other Traveller-related magic. And given how quickly she broke down after arriving- well. He’d ask her about it later. He imagined they all wanted to know. 

It feels too surreal, he thinks, as they approach the staircase. The last few hours just hell-upon-hell and then some. Caduceus takes careful point backwards down the stairs, watching Fjord’s still-damp footing and whispering direction for each hovering foot descending. 

By the time they reach the hot tub, he’s trembling and shaking. With gritted teeth and loud hisses, they manage to slide and manoeuvre a drowsy drow to the floor beside the empty tub. 

Fjord shucks off what armour and accessories he quickly can, throwing it to a spare space just wanting _movement_ and freedom. He takes a moment to centre himself with some deliberate breaths, listening to his heart pump, and taking stock of each wound and bruise. Later. He’ll deal with it all later. Essek needs them first. Divested of all that he can be easily, he sets about filling the hot tub while Caduceus checks in on their guest, and starting the fire beneath. 

‘‘Guest’... that’s not fair. _Friend._ You don’t risk life and limb for a ‘guest’, Fjord,’ he thinks bitterly. 

It takes so long to fill the tub that Caduceus had time to cover Essek with his coat, leave for sundries and spare clothes, and return with cold-infused tea for them both. He mutters that Jester’s resting and doing a little better and that Beau and Yasha’s wounds don’t appear to be much more than superficial. 

Fjord is relieved. They’re hurt. They’re injured. They’re smarting in more ways than just physical, but they’re alive and home. Now just for two more. 

He desperately tries not to think about them still so far away while he sets about stripping to his smallclothes. Caduceus is already down to his trousers- everything else folded and set aside next to Fjord’s messy- oh … that’s been folded too. There’s no hiding Fjord’s wince as he takes stock of all the cuts, slices, and other injuries Caduceus has gained in the last few hours. While Caduceus typically moved slowly and gently, now he was moving with one singular purpose- to reduce any and all pain. He gives his friend a grateful smile as they set about readying Essek for bathing. His brief moment of emotional alleviation comes crashing around him as they peel back the ‘clothes’ that Essek had been wearing. 

Those boils, splotched and ugly just _stare_ at him with malicious intent. Caduceus gives an ...almost a _growl_ seeing them- or as close to a growl as Fjord’s ever heard from the man - and continues carefully tearing and ripping the soiled garments off of their friend. 

Fjord has a strong stomach, a sea-hardened one at that, but watching skin come away in scabby ribbons with the fused fabrics almost churns bile. He counts it a small blessing that their patient is out of it again as two of the more bulbous pustules burst and pop as they try to tug stuck cloth away from them. The odour is immediately pungent and rancid. The bile threatens once more. 

Finally stripped, the two men grit their teeth and ready to move him. 

“Is this safe? The water- with him?”  
  
Caduceus gives a grim nod as they start to hoist Essek into the tub. “Yes, it’s not infectious to either of us I don’t think,” he pauses, out of breath for a moment. Fjord himself is huffing. “We may have to message our housekeeper to stay away though for her own safety and that of the local populace. Here, you sit behind him-”

It stings, sliding into the tepid water (kept lukewarm partly to not overdo it and partly because the fire hasn’t had time to fully heat it all up) with his own still-bleeding injuries but overall the water kisses each and every one with promises to heal and nurture. Within moments there’s already a thin, dark streak slithering through the water- blood from his torn-up leg. A mumbled apology from Caduceus relays regret at being unable to heal him. The grievous weight of tonight was taking its toll on the firbolg’s frail frame, and Fjord is quick to reassure him that he’ll be okay healing the old-fashioned way for once. He wants to reach for the Wildmother’s help himself, but right now all of his remaining energy is focussed on keeping exhaustion at bay and tending to their friend. 

Fjord gingerly leans back against the wall of the tub, Essek cradled in front of him while Caduceus climbs in and together they cleanse the drow as best they can. Intimacy and embarrassment is non-existent in this moment, eclipsed by nothing but the terrifying visual reminders of the horrific ordeal the wizard has undergone these last few weeks. His head lolls back on Fjord’s shoulder and it hurts Fjord to see him so … _still_ and vulnerable. 

He thinks back to the first, and last, time Essek was in this tub. Nervously drinking, being honest in a roundabout way...but overall having a pleasant time. He never would have thought all those months ago that they’d be saving the Shadowhand of the Dynasty - and that it would be a personal mission instead of a political one. 

Essek - slight as he was - always exuded an air of … ‘you-can’t-touch-me-and-if-you-try-you’ll-regret-it’ sorta thing about him. From their first meeting to the scourger interrogation Essek silently proclaimed that he was _deadly_. One of the Bright Queen’s most formidable people in her court. Weaponless, who wielded magic in a way that impressed and scared Fjord. In fact, he was a weapon himself, a dangerous edge to him, if you will. Granted to the Nein that edge may have dulled over time and especially after Nicodranas but… this was Essek mishandled and mistreated. Cracked, and broken. He didn’t envy the man’s recovery at all. 

_If h_ e recovered at all. 

Judging by the deep frown on Caduceus’ face as he methodically cleans Essek with washcloths, he’s thinking the same thing. 

Fuck.

They were going to need help.

* * *

Beau undoes the last of her torn wraps and throws them in the pile with Jester’s grotesquely-dyed clothes with disgust. There’s a small trail of water from the shrine to their bedroom floor through the house, but she literally does not give a flying fuck right now. 

Across the room, Yasha remains perched on Jester’s bed, their youngest friend holding her hand in a fitful doze. Beau continues her divesting, clothes almost shredded, and a lot of them blackened from Caleb’s flames. Her mouth twists in anger as she remembers the fire licking across her skin, darkening it and scabbing, cauterising, and singeing. Bloodied and bruised fists curl up, shaking as loud exhales flare her nostrils and she struggles to quell her rising fury. 

How _dare_ he-

A larger, paler hand curls over hers, and Beau starts at Yasha’s silent approach. Beau’s shoulders, once tenser and knotted, drop as she relaxes into the touch. Beau doesn’t say anything. Nor does Yasha. 

The moments tick by, measured by Jester’s muffled keens and sighs. Beau’s hackles rise again with each passing second- a tide coming in again.

Beau can’t take the silence. “I- he - I don’t know what happened in there to him. He _just-”_  
  
“Lost himself.”

Beau catches herself as the two words, twisted and wrapped in familiar melancholy, halts her. She takes a moment to look at Yasha closely. Attention mainly focused on a grieving Jester, Beau hadn’t had time to check in with her other friends- not even Yasha. The words were quiet and softly-delivered, but behind them was a wall of iron, hard and unbroken. A tone of sympathy, and relation. And a steady gaze of mismatched eyes confirmed to Beau that Yasha knew exactly what Caleb was going through. 

That built-up tension releases from her neck, her shoulders, and down her arms like a newborn waterfall until her fingers uncurl and in a bold move, Beau turns her hand in Yasha’s to hold it. She breathes a little sigh of relief when the larger hand adjusts and settles into it. 

Beau wants to ask Yasha all about it. To have her explain in explicit detail what it’s like. How awful it is. How bad it was. What they can _do_ to help. How to _break_ it. It’s not a seal on his neck this time- it’s a chokehold in his mind. A chain, and manacle keeping him captive that none of them can physically touch. Beau’s magical punches are useless, except for perhaps brief moments of catharsis such as when she socked him in the lab. But that didn’t really help him. Or her, for that matter. Even that feels hollow in retrospect. Cos she wasn’t punching Caleb; she wasn’t punching her _brother_. She was punching a stranger, who felt no guilt or remorse for his actions. Who viewed her as simply collateral. Who was someone she had never met before. 

With Yasha - Yasha had cried when she- in the cathedral- as the sword plunged into-

But Caleb - _Bren_ \- stared at her coldly, distantly. Someone completely unknown to her. 

And she hated it. 

She argued with him in the sewers. He argued back utilising weapons of logic stocked with ammo of common sense. And _fuck_ she couldn’t _argue_ against that. It went against every wild instinct she had to just knock him out and force him to come along, but he’d been _right-_ and even worse his plan had _worked_ as evidenced by their successful arrival home. She hated admitting that she felt useless in that situation but- 

A noise escapes her- something between a grunt and a growl as her head swims round and round in vicious circles. She gets nowhere except emotionally dizzy and lands solidly on guilt when she stops. 

Yasha squeezes her hand once more, pouring warmth and security, and support into such a gentle gesture.

Beau releases some of the returned tension, too lost in her own angry thoughts to notice how riled she was getting. She gives a weak smile, tight-lipped and not reaching her eyes, and looks out the dark window next to her bed.

A reflection looks weakly back at her, dripping down the glass as rain outside starts up. She huffs in surprise, peering closer, but not letting go of her anchor. 

“Holy _fuck_ I look a state-” she exclaims, her free hand touching her loosened hair- half burnt and uneven at the front. “Motherfucker scorched my hair off.”

“I think you still look lovely, Beau.”

Beau turns and gives Yasha the most _incredulous_ look. She’s half-covered in sewer gunk, clothes still damp with a water trail leading to the hallway to prove it. Blood is smeared from cuts and slices from the glass, she’s pretty sure her face is going to turn so purple from bruising she might pass as a drow _and_ her haircut looked like TJ had been let loose with scissors on her-

And yet, despite the frightful reflection, Beau believed the sincerity of Yasha Nydoorin. Spending a moment imitating a fish, she settles on a nervous laugh with a muttered ‘you too’ before rubbing the back of her neck and turning away. Her face is already flushing with heat. Perhaps the red will overwrite the oncoming black-and-blue, she thinks. 

Beau inspects the taller woman in the dark glass beside her. Clothes are damp, like the rest of them. Her hair is a tangled mess of blood, odorous chemicals, some moss or plant life… and part of an arrow? Her skin had a sickly sheen to it, and some of the droplets on her skin wasn’t water- it was sweat. Beau turns, concerned, ready to enquire when-

All it takes is a weak cough from Jester to whip them both around- and Beau regrets it instantly as her ribs cry out in pain. Yasha, a pillar of silent strength, swiftly moves them to sit on Beau’s bed- a little cold and dusty from disuse- but she sinks onto the mattress gratefully, holding her injured rib. Their hands are still intertwined and Beau wouldn’t let go for the world right now. Jester settles back into her unsteady sleep, turning over beneath her cover and curling up further into a little ball. Beau’s heart breaks a little more this night.

Failing to cover a grunt as she holds her ribcage, a grimace plasters across her face and Yasha reaches out in concern. 

“I’m fine, I’m f- Aaah _shit_. Mmm. Okay. Maybe not _fine,_ but I’ve been through worse.”

“You should lie down, Beau.”

“Yeah, you too. You’re looking a lil’ peaky there- what happened?” 

For the first time in … as long as Beau can remember, Yasha looks _tired_. She sighs as guards and walls usually in place start to drop, the frantic terror and horrible fuckery of the last few hours catching up to her- to all of them. “It was the… uh…. In that lab. With those beast-monster things. The chemicals spilled and mixed together. I remember inhaling - it was disgusting. Reminded me of poisonous swamp gases. I passed out with how noxious and toxic it was...and then Caduceus woke me up.”

Beau stares, stunned. She had no idea Yasha had been _down_ at all tonight. It’d all happened so fast… and then there was that _scream-_ She’d scrambled over to Jester, filled with consuming fear unlike any other. There’d been so much _blood_ \- but to hear that she almost lost Yasha too? And that Essek was looking even more awful in the light of their tree- something that was supposed to be comforting… and that Caduceus had been in a frightful state, and Fjord was barely standing on his own two legs and Caleb and Veth were so fucking far away and they couldn’t help or even message and find out where they were not to mention they had the knowledge that that place fucking _exists_ now- 

“Hey, _heey-_ ” Yasha has to pull her hand away forcefully from Beau’s white-knuckled grip as breathing is coming thick and fast so quickly that it’s making her dizzy so Yasha slides heavily off the bed to kneel before her and Beau’s ribs are like an iron vice around her lungs as they stop her from taking full _breaths_ in this moment in this time when just about everything went fucking _wrong_ in that place what the fuck were they _thinking-?!_

Two glowing hands settle either side of Beau’s head, guiding her forward to rest forehead against forehead. A shiver of comfort traverses down her nerves from the points of contact, concentrating to where Beau’s hand holds tight to protesting injuries. Momentously the pain eases to a pinch and it feels less like an anvil pushing down on her and more a small pile of books or something. “You’re okay, Beau. I’m okay. We’re here. We’re home.”

Beau’s free hand scrambles to clutch one of the glowing ones holding her head steady, stopping it from swimming and falling down a whirlpool of despair. Beau feels her watery eyes flitting frantically between the two immediately before her, and feeling the calming comfort and presence of this incredible woman. She’s okay. She survived. 

It takes a little longer for her breathing to settle, and Beau almost regrets calming down as Yasha starts to pull away. 

“I should go and -”

“Stay.” The word leaves Beau’s mouth with no control- but she finds she can’t be embarrassed about it. She’s sitting hunched on her bed, looking like a wet rat’s nest, in her ripped trousers and cropped undershirt feeling the most vulnerable she ever has for fuck’s sake… and yet the word comes out with no hint of desperation. “Please.”

Yasha looks hesitant at the hand half-reaching out for her- Beau hadn’t even realised she’d done that- and scans Beau. Still feeling the fright of the last few minutes washing away, Beau steels her expression, showing sincerity and - hopefully - comfort. It seems to work, as Yasha gives a nod and awkwardly moves to the bed, shrinking her sodden cloak to the floor in a wet _flop_. 

It’s a few moments of graceless fumbling and manoeuvring but soon they’re lying side-by-side on the bed, atop the covers and not touching. 

Beau only manages less than a minute of this silliness before huffing and (painfully) turning over to curl into Yasha’s side. A few moments later, the thick arm beneath her moves and settles to pull her in close. 

They don’t say anything. There’s nothing needing to be said right now. They listen to the deepening slumber of Jester, the start of steady rain outside, and the bustling of movement from the guys downstairs. If they need them, they know where they are and will call. For now, Beau just wants Yasha to feel safe, and to feel safe in her arms. To just appreciate and reflect on the fact that they nearly died, but didn’t. To just _be_ in the moment.

Tonight was too close a fucking call for Beau’s liking, and she doesn’t want to be in that situation again with a regret like dancing around the woman she- 

Well. 

There’s a lot of baggage there, on both sides. And Beau is respectful of Yasha in every way that she can be. But just for tonight, let them stop dancing. Events were too real and too scary to ignore… and she needs something- someone- to hold onto right now to save her from losing her wits with worry. 

And worry she does.

She worries about her family, limping around the Xhorhaus. 

She worries for their… _her_ friend- beaten, tortured, mistreated to the worst degree. If she was honest, she would admit out loud to Yasha, in this holy quiet of theirs, that she couldn’t bear to look at him after how awfully she’d thought about him since Nicodranas and the Peace Talks. He’d been to hell, checked in, got the full deluxe torment package, and had to be forcefully checked out by them. He’d more than paid his dues and Beau’s shame nearly equalled her fear for him.

And fear she had aplenty. No longer on the move from enemies, forced to stop and settle, her thoughts had caught up to her. She had no energy to fight it right now, but the secure, firm embrace of Yasha kept her grounded, saved her from diving headlong into that dark pit of despair. 

They just had to wait now. Wait for the sound of the front door opening, and Veth and Caleb to step through safe and sound. Then, and only then, would she breathe easily. Then, and only then, would she beat Caleb to a fucking pulp. Or hug him until his ribs break. Or both. Probably both. Bastard. 

Yasha pulls her a bit tighter and says nothing as Beau wipes away her sniffles. 

The rain gets a little bit heavier, and Beau stares at nothing. 

* * *

Caduceus looks out the window, just listening to the patter of rain against the house. It’s hard, and heavy, almost like small rocks pelting from above. A healthy omen perhaps, showering them with life, or sheltering them from view. Perhaps. 

Freshly washed and dressed in simple linens, Caduceus sips at his tea. Beside him, tucked into bed in clothes too big for him, Essek lies still and fragile. The bath had gone a long way to helping him warm up, but washing away the dirt and grime did little to settle Caduceus’ mind. Turns out it had been a slight blessing, hiding and covering other bruises, other cuts, scrapes, rashes, and tears. A full inventory of the man totalled a very broken body before him. Fjord and Caduceus had painstakingly taken time to wrap and treat each slice, every wound, and injury. Neither man had the energy to hide their fury, their disbelief, shock, and horror at every uncovered crime visible on their friend. Even now Caduceus’ hands held a fading echo of the trembling that had become more agitated the more they tended Essek. 

It had taken the better part of an hour, but they finally tucked him in and allowed themselves respite. Fjord was going to go to the market as soon as merchants were open to retrieve salves and poultices to aid recovery. 

Perhaps he might also find something that might help them against this… crafted affliction. But right now he was dozing in a second chair on the other side of the bed, the two of them acting sentinel over their ward.

A creak, two creaks, catches his attention. Their attempt at stealthing would have been successful perhaps to someone other than he who grew up in an old house. He hears a door click, and soft thumps as the figure exits the bedroom across the hall. Caduceus listens carefully and identifies Yasha from the stride and carefulness. And likeliness. 

After bathing and attending to Essek, they had settled him into the guest bedroom- unused until now- and knocked gently on the ladies’ door. Peering in, they had found Jester sleeping - curled in on herself with a frown on her usually happy face- and Beau and Yasha sharing a bed. Ankles crossed, and monk asleep in her arms, Yasha had heard the intrusion and given them a soft wave as she had looked up. Caduceus quietly offered tea but was politely declined. 

Now, about an hour later, Yasha joined them. 

He offers as much as a kind expression as he is able to muster, and enquires after her ability to sleep. She shakes her head. 

“Beau is sound, but I need to get up and move. My muscles ache and resting is making them… well, restless.” Ever the silent guardian, she was unable to sit and do nothing. Only sheer exhaustion was able to coax them to sleep this morning. 

“How are you?” he asks. Her skin is still painted with a pallid pallor- though she’s looking a little healthier than when he roused her in the laboratory he’s pleased to note. She shrugs as she lowers herself onto the foot of the bed, peering sternly at their pained friend. 

“You?”

“Mmm.” He sips his cooling tea once more. Words… he doesn’t think words can do the suffocating fog inside him justice at this moment. Jester had already started her outlet, pouring her grief into tears and wails. A good outlet, a healthy one. Perhaps her mother would be a healing comfort for her after such a frightful experience. 

Fjord was channeling it into caring and being on top of things- of his family. Right now Essek was the most injured and needed the most attention, so that’s where Fjord committed himself. Come later, he would likely check in with the others and deal with his own terror in private. Caduceus was confident that Fjord would reach out to others -be it to himself, Beau, or the Wildmother for comfort and guidance should he need it. He wasn’t too worried about Fjord mentally. More and more he was becoming comfortable in showing his emotions freely around them - such as when they were cornered. 

Caduceus grips his cup a little tighter and takes a shaky sip. 

Beau would very likely jump to anger, and physical outbursts before walking herself through her personal philosophies and ways. Training, sparring, probably some drinking, and maybe some shouting would be the way for her. He’d keep an eye on her, but Yasha would probably step in before he would. 

Veth walked a very thin line and her mentality may depend on something physical and tangible- either her flask or her family. 

Caduceus spares a soft smile for the thought of little Luc, full of cheek, energy, and happiness. And quiet, sturdy, dependable Yeza. Yes, both may be crucial to Veth’s handling of this last night, especially after her hard acts of mercy. Not to mention the way that Caleb reverted and treated her. 

Ah. Caleb. Hmm. 

Caleb was going to be trouble. They were going to have to dig him out of the hole he forcibly buried himself within, and it wasn’t going to be easy. Luckily, Caduceus was a grave-tender, and digging straight to the heart of things was in his job description. But _time_ is what they needed most for him. Much time. And distance from _there_. They’d all need to chip in to help Caleb come back to them. Letting their friend descend into a dark aspect of himself was possibly one of the most horrifying decisions they’d ever had to make as a group. Even now it doesn’t sit right with Caduceus- even if the ‘justification’ on their end was their - and Caleb’s survival in that place. Perhaps Essek would be a good focus for him. Very likely, in fact. Either giving Caleb a goal to focus on - such as working on an antidote or even just conversing with Essek himself if - _when -_ he wakes would be a start. Hopefully. 

Yasha, like Fjord, would watch everyone else, but only intervene if she felt it necessary. He thinks she’ll be handling the events of the night better than most, with perhaps one or two hiccups. She was also unlikely to think of herself. Which he points out. “You should change before you catch a cold in that armour.” 

She looks down in surprise, as though remembering she was still drying from the pond. Her locks were darker and heavier, and there was very likely a wet patch on Beau’s pillow that wasn’t drool. Nothing a gentle laundry wash couldn’t fix. “Oh. Right. Yes. Um. Okay-” and she quietly exits the room. He smiles fondly after her, waiting until her footsteps and movements are nothing more than faraway noises in this large house. 

Dawn isn’t far off, not that one could tell in Rosohna, but their timepieces throughout the house and Caduceus' own instincts lets him know. Leaning back wearily into the chair, he lets the awfulness of the last few hours wash over him. He was safe now, Essek was tended to, the women were all right as much as they could be for the moment, Fjord was dozing. He just needed the other two to come home and then he could rest. But for now, he would slowly pack away all of that pain and hurt. 

So he does. Closing his eyes, Caduceus reaches for a little spiritual comfort and recollects the last few hours. 

Like fast-paced magical illusions, scenes, and horrors that he - _they_ \- had witnessed flood his mind like water rapids after heavy rain. 

The internally-combusted guard. The wails and cries of the forgotten tormented. The cell Essek had been in. The screams of the men and women set alight. The stench of crisped corpses, crushed beneath a stony deluge. A ward, with several barely-living bodies, mercifully ended. A laboratory; clean, well-kept, and clinical. Vials with dark blood. Jars with grafts of skin. Chemicals spilling, monsters slashing, Jester screaming, Beau shouting, Yasha roaring, Fjord crying, Essek whimpering, Caleb breaking- 

Falling. Darkness. Separation and regret. Water, _not-_ drowning, the thrill of survival, the thrill of arrival. Guilt of abandonment of two of their own. Horror, shock. Dealing. Coping. Managing. Doing. Busy, keeping busy was the way to ignore it. To move on. To continue, and not stop. Because if he stopped, he didn't know if he could start again-

He jumps when the sound of bouncing china clatters across the floorboards. Jostling awake he realises he's dozed off a little- though the only other occupant doesn’t even stir. Fjord’s chair is empty. He must have _really_ fallen asleep to have not noticed that. 

There’s a blanket over his lap and a saucer with a faded Xhorhassian pattern loose in one hand. His empty cup wobbles into a final resting pose on the cold floorboards. From the door behind him, Yasha’s dependable gait creeps in, and a long, bare arm picks up the cup. It’s set down on the bedside table. 

He regards it sleepily. The table was a crooked thing, found in a market stall with several other pieces of mismatched and used furniture they ended up purchasing. ‘Well-loved’ was what Jester had called it. There was a little painted doodle of a stick-figure Jester trying to ‘push’ the table in the correct position on its side. 

“Why don’t you go sleep in your own bed, I’ll keep an eye on him for now,” comes her gentle whisper. Caduceus almost refuses her. Almost. One last look over their patient and friend, and he’s satisfied this is as much as they can do until Fjord returns from the market. Instead, he gives a weary nod and a word of quiet thanks. 

He’s out of his chair in a slow, aching motion and reaches for his staff. Newly-gained knots and cricks in his body indeed tell the story of his brief slumber in an uncomfortable chair. Coupled with his other injuries he’s feeling every bit of his many seasons, and wonders if this is how his Aunt Corrin feels- taut and twisted up. He picks up his cup, leans on his stick a bit too heavily and exits the room. He looks down the hallway, to where his room would be. He turns in the opposite direction and goes down the stairs. 

As he stands in the lonely foyer, several off-shoots leading him to various areas of their downstairs floor, Caduceus takes a moment for himself. Content that enough time has hopefully passed for an answer, he mimics Jester’s familiar spell-signs and sigils and speaks aloud.

“Hey. It’s Caduceus. Clay. And uh- how you are both doing, if you’re okay? Safe? We’re home now. You can uh, reply...to this... message?” 

There’s a rippling warmth from his throat that carries into his voice as he speaks, and he feels the words vibrate not only around him, but also slingshotting far, far away from him. A fond feeling of gentle amusement also accompanies this, and Caduceus smiles a little at the Wildmother’s familiarity. 

Within moments he’s receiving a hazy, sleepy-sounding, but ultimately _alive_ message back. 

“Wha - Caducey? Izzat you? Whuhtimeizzit-” A brief pause. “Oh! _Caduceus!_ We’re out! We’re in forest! Resting! Be home. Soon! Fire still bad!”

The only thing keeping Caduceus from collapsing is his staff. The _relief_ is so sudden, so flooding, that he wanted to let himself get swept away in it. They’re _alive_. They’re _out_. This was the best news they could get right now. Likely Caleb would need a little longer to rest up and regain his energy before teleporting them, but they were coming _home._ The healing could begin. He would spread the news as and when his friends awoke. For now, he needed to still his shaking hands. He would truly be able to breathe when they were both within sight again- for better or worse. 

As he hobbles through to the kitchen with teacup and saucer in hand, a subtle aroma of moss and wildflowers follows him, offering him a small boon of strength and support. He takes it kindly. 

It takes a little time, but he washes the cup and teapot carefully, and methodically. They are set to dry on the rack. He collects the clothes from the hot tub room. He systematically goes through the motions of chores. Chores that need doing. Blood that needs cleaning. Stains that need undoing. Tears that need mending. A shield that needs polished. Hands that need to be busy. 

He does not rush these errands. He cannot. He immediately discards the rags, placing them into a spare sack that once held potatoes and preparing to burn them along with any other clothes that need it later. 

There is food in the pantry, long-lasting, and edible. He starts preparing for breakfast- the sooner they can get back to normality the easier it will be to deal with the aftermath. So he tells himself. 

He washes, and chops, and slices, and arranges, and prepares a veritable tray of select dishes for his family. Just as he’s serving up the regrettably plain porridge, the unmistakable sound of the front door chimes ring. 

He’s hobbling out of the kitchen as fast as his aching bones allow to the greeting hall where he finds-

Fjord. Dripping wet, shaking off water from his hair and cloak and a new wooden crutch in his grip. At his feet is a cloth-covered basket, filled to the brim. 

He sees Caduceus and gives a grim wave, toeing off muddy boots and kicking them unceremoniously into the front hall. The action is a little wobbly, his crutch preventing him from toppling with the imbalance. 

“Judgin’ by yer face that it’s me that came through the front door, I’m goin’ to guess that Caleb ‘n’ Veth aren’t back yet.”

“Uh, no. Not yet,” Caduceus answers slowly. Hmm, that’s… something to keep an eye on. “I did message them, however. They are out and hiding in the forest. They’ll be home as soon as Caleb is able to transport them.”

The transformation is immediate and Fjord’s face flits through as many expressions as Caduceus imagines his own did not too long ago. It settles on a teary smile. “Well. Thank fuck for that.” 

Caduceus quite agrees. 

* * *

Yasha wants to open a window, to feel the cool air and spits of rain on her bare arms. She yearns to stand on her balcony and let the wind whip her hair around her face, to tilt her head to the sky and scream into the dark morning. 

But she doesn’t, for Essek doesn’t need the cold right now- he needs someone to stay with him. 

Resting against the hollow of her throat is a new item- orange, and eye-shaped. Looted from Vergesson, Fjord had placed it in her hands and asked her to familiarise herself with its magics. She recognised it as a similar one to what Caleb wore. It would hide him - and any within a certain radius - from scrying and other means of spying. 

And this is the reason she does not stride to her room and throw open those outer doors- Essek needs protecting and shielding. 

They caused a stir and ruckus there, unsurprisingly. She _was_ surprised they got as far as they did before alerting the guards. They might not have been identified yet, Fjord had told her while donning his cloak, but they’d be searching for Essek for sure. He was unable to use the pendant just yet, but if he - no, _when_ he awoke, they would equip him with it first and foremost. So for now, they had to use it for him. And that required her presence near him. 

Yasha was not alone in guarding Essek. In the time that she had relieved Caduceus, a very dour-looking Jester had padded her way through on bare, wobbly feet. She gave Yasha a silent hug around the waist- one the aasimar returned as delicately as she could, before simply going to lie beside their unconscious friend. A blue hand reaches to intertwine with a thin, purple one, and within minutes Jester is back to sleeping fitfully. 

Yasha covers her with Caduceus’ unused blanket. 

Beau joins the gathering a short while later, her hair at all angles and face crumpled with tiredness. She doesn’t sit on the bed but flops gracelessly into Fjord’s empty chair. She doesn’t speak but offers a wave that requires far too much effort. Snores soon accompany Jester’s occasional whimpers.

Yasha fetches another blanket. 

The rain eases for a time to a drizzle, before surging again into a downpour. She hears the front door downstairs open. 

She doesn’t hear Veth’s excitable shrills, nor Caleb’s low tones. She hears Caduceus and Fjord. He’s back safely. The conflicting feelings of sadness and happiness wars within her at this.

She had offered to accompany him or to even go in his stead after noticing his limp, but he declined, almost insisting. She nearly pressed but decided against it when his accent changed into something firmer, more demanding. He seemed to need it more than she did at that moment. She could wait a little longer to go outside. 

So she stands watch. 

Her armour and weapons are set out in her room. Bloodied, dirtied, wet. She would deal with them later. She would deal with everything. Later. 

She just wants her peculiar clan together again. Whole. Intact. It felt very wrong to leave Caleb and Veth behind, and she briefly wonders if this is what it was like for them in the King’s Cage when they had to flee her- 

“Psst, Yasha!” Fjord leans in the doorway a tray of prepared food in his hands and hair soaked once more. She’s envious a little. Joining him, she leans on the door jamb, arms crossed. “Caduceus got word from Veth- they’re out of the asylum an’ restin’ up. Should be home soon.”

Yasha’s grateful the frame holds her weight for the relief could almost wind her. She takes two steadying breaths and thanks him quietly for the information. He nods in understanding and leaves the tray with her. She sets the food aside, not hungry, but ready for when the others awaken. Soon Caduceus returns and she doesn't chide him for not resting. He settles back into the chair and she gives an apologetic look for his reassigned blanket. Despite his protests, she fetches her own for him. 

Fjord enters with one of the dining chairs- a silly sight given that he struggles with a new walking cane also - but he sets it down at the foot of the bed and almost completes the circle around it. Beau and Jester haven’t stirred through this. Essek simply gives painfully rattling breaths, unaware of the protective formation around him. He was guarded. He was safe. She deposits the necklace back with Fjord, receiving a quizzical look for doing so. 

“I’ll be back soon,” and she exits the room. She needs her time now. She just needs to go outside and feel the grass and feel the wind and feel the sharp streaks of rain on her skin. Just for a few moments. Long legs descend the staircase two at a time then large feet pound with increasing strides as she nears the front door. 

Just as she reaches for the handle, the chimes sound as it opens sharply from the other side. Timed with a gust of wind, the door bangs hard against the entryway wall. 

Before her, flanked by two uncomfortable-looking Kryn soldiers, is Veth. Her dress is filthy, her hair a nest of leaves and twigs. She’s got black smudges of soot or something dripping down her face and a look of such dejected despair that Yasha immediately assumes that Caleb did not survive.

If only that were it. 

After an anguished, hiccuped re-telling, Yasha almost finds herself wishing that the worst _had_ happened. This outcome is simply far too dire for their family unit to take right now. This was one blow too many, and very possibly the final straw to break the horse’s back. 

Screaming and raging into the storm and gales later on does not bring the catharsis that she seeks.  
  
It does not vanish the sorrow now drowning her friends. 

And it certainly does not bring Caleb back home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all my supporters of TCD- your encouragement, reactions, comments, kudos, screams, yells, DMs, and swat-emotes are the fuel to my writing fire. 
> 
> Massive shout-out to my beta and soundboard Achilles for letting me talk his ear off endlessly and sniping me when I was avoiding writing and editing. You're a star and a lifesaver.
> 
> I promised you all that it'd get better... well buckle in folks, it's going to be a bumpy climb. From here on out, we're going to be narrating as the man of the hour, Essek himself. Hope you're ready ;)


	2. Choices of the Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your amAZing feedback on the last chapter?? I'm-?? Overwhelmed by the enthusiasm and support?!! I was so moved I was writing this next chapter earlier than I anticipated!! I can't promise a frequent-frequent update schedule or anything but know I _am_ working on it a lot and have more of this planned out ahead of time than TCD!
> 
> Love you guys <3 <3 <3

Crooked cracks of pain suspending. Cutting deep, twisting, bending. Blood flows to the wrong avenues. Outoutout. Should be _in._

Cruelty buries itself deep. Burrowing. Burrowing. Tunnelling. Rearranging him, mutating him. Transforming and corrupting him. Tainting him, noxious and pestilent. 

Breathing. It’s difficult. His head- it swims. 

He swims. 

Two images superpose upon one another. Both true, both unreal. He is walking a plank of lies, overlooking the treacherous waters below. Shining teeth of false, saccharine promises seduce him. He relieves the beacon from his own possession in both falsified scenarios. In the first instance, he is welcomed by a group of seven arms, proud and comforting. They pull him back from his violent end. He is warm and held, and safe. He is accepted.

In the second image, he takes a step forward. 

In that shark-infested water, the Assembly thrashes and grins at his living corpse. They swirl and circle, surround and jeer, snapping at his heels. Faster and faster they chase, whirling and stalking until the only force on him is _down_. He does not have the buoy anymore. That 12-sided lifesaver was gifted away. He gave it away. Voluntarily. He _did_ that. 

Caleb- he gave it to _Caleb._ For safe-keeping. Haloed in warm flames, a wand of steel in his hand, blood of the tormenter polluting his shadow- 

Without a beacon, he drowns for what is there to keep him safe now from the cutthroat appetite of the Cerberus Assembly? He is bait and fodder. A willing fool in their games disregarded.

There is nothing. They have no use for him now. So he drowns. 

Down. 

Down. 

To the choking depths they drag him. There is a new predator slinking around him with a needle-like attachment that stabs and pierces and slices and cuts. He tries to fight this new hunter, this leech siphoning him for his own amusement. He does not last long. There is new venom in his veins now, one not manufactured by himself. Vitriol of an entirely different making. 

So he fades, and stills. It is easier to let it take its chunks of flesh. The fighting only made the wounds worse. He learns that _very_ quickly.

The waters are more blood than irony now- thick and coagulating. A dark mass, flashing blue and black, writhes its way around him. A constrictor with malicious purpose, it slithers around him uninvited. As living vines it wraps round and round, pulling taught, caressing his broken body in its rancid grasp. Tendrils slink their way to his face and in his mouth down his throat filling his lungs poisoning his system weighing him down heavier and heavier as it swells beneath his skin bulbous and pustulous-

The torment is immediate. His eyes shoot blood his ears weep with whimpers. Spasms wrack him and he has nowhere to go. He claws desperately at nothing, finding no respite in these seizures. Limply, tiredly, eventually, he succumbs to his fate. The bloody waters wash him away into oblivion. This way and that, a dismantled ragdoll, he follows the current allowing this death. 

Death. 

How welcome it is now. 

He cannot be upset at this. Giving the beacon back, showing he wanted to do good… that was enough. He was content with this. It...felt _right_. 

Those inky depths, it plays more tricks on him. Tricks of motion, of security. Of kind voices he longed to hear. It coos in his ear, taunting, seducing. Promises of safety, of warmth, and home. Of kindness he knows he deserves not. The weights on his limbs lessen...just a fragment. His bones don’t rattle with his fits anymore. 

There is … new torture. One of cold, and freedom. Of open and _out_. His bones are now heavy. His lungs hiss and gasp- a warmup for his encroaching death knell. 

A voice, sorely (desperately) hoped for ridicules him with more and more comforting words. The lies- they spill and drench him. They wrap him in a blanket of unfairness, granting him that one warm feeling long snuffed out. 

Hope. 

His hair is moving, fingers of those oppressive depths no doubt worming its way deeper into his mind. His skull parts, head splitting in dizziness while he fights consciousness with all the energy he has left - none. 

He doesn’t want to wake. He doesn’t want to feel or to perceive. 

Existence _hurts_. 

The loneliness… it _hurts_. 

At least in oblivion, down below the sharks, pulled beneath the tides of war and undercurrent of politics, he can escape. He can drown in peace. He can breathe his last and feel no more. The darkness will suffocate him - or has it already? 

He hopes so for the blinking lights above him wink of safety and security once more. Here. There. Like little stars in his bleak, laughing void, they twinkle. There’s one. And another. And just one more. Like a lighthouse they fade and return, guiding him back to the surface of his mind. 

He tries not to float. He doesn't want to float. He wants to be caught in the maelstrom, the whirlpool of his own making. The waters churn and fight and grab and claim - but a tender warmth between his brow calms them without effort. 

New water befalls him - warm, and sorrowful. Wails and weeping he doesn’t think are his own blanket him. 

It’s too false. It’s too kind, and … too promising. He can’t. He _won’t_. He refuses to let that playful pitch take him like this. He’ll take his own way out - in his own crafted madness. He won’t let that flicker of … longing and … and _hope_ beguile him. No. He won’t let this place take him like that. He won’t let it use _them_ against him. 

They can’t be here. Not in his mind. Not in this torture. Not in his vision, or arms, or presence, or proximity-

This place is hell. It’s worse than hell. It’s a deserved end. It’s his own personal punishment. The consequences that he (deliberately disregarded) failed to acknowledge rearing their violent heads. With rictus grins of bloodied teeth words of twisted truths and painful pledges on their barbed tongues, they tormented him they used him they manipulated him-

And he _let_ them. His own hubris deemed himself an acceptable loss- expendable and unnecessary- and if that wasn’t telling enough of how fatal this game as he played… He brands himself a fool. Who antes up their own person as collateral for goals so selfish? 

A fool indeed. 

(But the promises were so enticing so full of potential how could he not the possibilities were right _there_ he could have had it all could have _known it all_ I thought I understood them and they _me_ we should have been peers- why didn't we _work why was I not good enough? I am a_ prodigy _I excel and invent_ why wasn't I _worthy-?!_ )

His body jostles and moves not of his own accord. There’s murmurs and whispers and hisses and curses. It’s all very true to life, this elaborate fantasy. Something a bit beyond anything he (dared to) dream up. 

And then something familiar, something finally, _finally_ indicative of this horrific hallucination’s incorporeality. 

**_Pain_.**

It’s a ripping pain. A crude and sharp one. Acutely it breaks from him, tearing his very body. A new rip in the fabric of him that he used to be. Another hole for his life to seep from. He hears the regretful apologies but dismisses them spitefully. Words mean nothing, not when the pain continues. 

If he could, he would laugh. It would be a bitter laugh, one that bubbles manically from the throat and spilling until tears streak down his face and his skeleton trembles with the fit. 

Of _course_ it would be the pain that breaks the delusion. What else was there in this barbarous place? There was only pain. Pain of the body. Pain of the mind. Pain of the spirit. 

Pain of the solitude. 

It wouldn’t be as bad (he long realised when succumbing to those watery depths) if he never had met the Mighty Nein. 

It would have been so much easier to sink down, down, down, letting the sharks feast on his life if there wasn’t that single, unbreaking tether pulling him back to the surface. That one, thin but _adamant_ lifeline that refused to let him go. 

And oh what a fool he was. He waited, letting himself be consumed in that swirling infinitude of despair. It was a fitting end, after all. So he waited, and succumbed, and drowned, and choked. It was a slow death. An unkind one. But then that thread, tied delicately around his conscience, gave a cruel tug. 

It was easy to ignore. He knows the game this nihilistic torment plays. Better to let him be taken than fight and fooled once more. 

But oh what a _fool_ he was. 

The thread tugged once more, more insistently this time. It pulled, and yanked, and then hiked him up so forcefully that he had no choice but to hope. 

And that was the cruellest punishment of all. 

They weren’t coming for him ( _they might_ ).

He wasn’t being rescued ( _but what if-_ )

They didn’t know where he was ( _they could survive in this cold, cruel world-_ ).

It was too dangerous ( _as though that would stop them_ ).

They don’t care ( _We miss you, Essek!_ ).

They _don’t_ ( _You didn't account for us_ ).

They… 

They _can’t_ ( _They can change you_ ).

He- 

I…

I don’t deserve it ( _You have a choice_ ).

I don’t. Not after- ( _You have a rare opportunity-_ ).

No. He wouldn’t ( _one chance to save yourself_ ). 

But … it’s not real. They’re not real. You’re not real! 

( _And we are offering it._ )

But I don’t deserve the redemption (but I want to _fight_ for it). I deserve the punishment (I don’t _want_ this anymore). Don’t come for me ( _please save me_ ). I can’t protect you (I would choose you if I had to). I cannot take this lonely grief any more (solitude is an armour I can no longer afford as protection). 

I don’t have the energy to fight now ( _Come back to us, Essek!_ )

A crossroads is presented. 

Downwards is the ultimate succumbing. It is the last checkpoint to the end. It is the final acceptance of his projected arc. As if moulded from molasses and tar, it promises no escape. No helping hand. No light or hope will penetrate this empty nothingness. He will cease to exist, and _finally,_ be at peace. 

Perhaps. Perhaps ‘peace’ is too kind a word for the finality below him.

But up. And forward. And left, right, behind, around- Everywhere but down presents him with… hope. 

Behind him is Fjord, stronger now than when they first met. Soft confidence propping Essek up with gentle hands. An expression crafted from learned lessons comforts him. Essek trusts him to help find his footing.

To his left, Beauregard. A smirk on her face and clever remark on her tongue, fists raised ready to defend him. Ready to check him. Veth stands at her side, armed with well-meaning intentions and justified resent, keeping a watchful eye also. He trusts them both to question, challenge, and berate him. 

Floating above, Yasha. Soft understanding of haunted memories irradiates from her. A hollow acceptance in her eyes is eclipsed by the promise of something better- reflections of her friends. No one shies away from her in fear or suspicion. He trusts her to show him the genuineness of their friends. 

Before him, a diamond-encased hand clasped in his, is Jester. Watery eyes shine with love- love that he wants to deserve. That he doesn’t know what to do with. That she presses upon him anyway. It’s too much. It’s so warm and bright that he feels blinded- but unlike the dire blackness, he can actually see through it. And it’s pure. He trusts her to never let him go. 

His left is guarded by Caduceus. Patient, kind eyes peer at him, stripping him to his core and witnessing his flaws, his mistakes, his errors and newborn regrets. Caduceus does not flinch away, but nods, and settles a large hand on Essek's shoulder. He trusts Caduceus to always be honest with him. 

One more person left. 

Beyond Jester, far away into the indeterminate distance, is a blurred figure. One that flickers between a facsimile of himself, and the man he gave the beacons to in his dream on the hallucinated ship. 

Caleb stands tall, taller than Essek had seen before, brandishing that steel wand. Blood drips from the end- an unending flow stream- and smoke from his fingertips. Fire blazes in his eyes with a coldness that trembles Essek’s body. He holds out a hand also- a fireball aimed at him. At the last second, as it slingshots from those practised fingers, it veers off far behind them all. The crisped cries of torturers charred crescendo… descending into silence once more. 

Bereft of the Xhorhassian coat, Caleb cuts a more confident image and pulls forth a book. One that Essek gave him. Or was it the beacon? He gave something of great import to him. 

Perhaps he gifted his loyalty. His gratitude. His fighting spark now almost snuffed out. 

Perhaps something more. 

Perhaps he gave it all to Caleb. Himself included. Essek couldn't trust himself with his own survival any more after all. 

He would again. 

He promised to do good things. Essek had made that promise. He couldn’t keep it if he were dead. He looks to unwavering eyes once more, shining with intent, and purpose. 

He trusted Caleb to hold him accountable for his words- for his actions.

The event horizon below him ripples with patience. It wishes to claim him. Consume him. To devour and envelope him in entirety. 

Perhaps one day it will. Perhaps, when it is finally his time, he will return here and allow himself to sink once more knowing that no thread will be strong enough to pull him back. But for now? 

For now Essek peers around at his new pillars of strength and guidance he dares call ‘friends’, and without hesitation, he steps away from that carnivorous dark. 

For the first time in time immeasurable, Essek wakes up with clarity.

He wakes up in _light._

He wakes up … not alone.

He wakes up by choice.


	3. Reality Rushes In

Waking takes more energy than Essek has in surplus. He is not unused to exhaustion and tiredness- usually after a long working night or research. With that fatigue comes a sense of production- of progress and advancement. 

This weariness holds no such allusions. 

This is the exhaustion of unending torment, of torture and worse. A weariness unlike anything he has experienced before. It is not just a bodily depletion he fights, no. It is that of the mind, of the spirit. It turns out even choosing to live is an action of such magnitude that it takes all his reserves and more to enact. 

For it was a choice. _Is_ a choice. One that he has to consciously make and remind himself of when mental clarity is afforded to him- something that is slowly coming more and more frequently.

He has awoken (that he recalls) a handful of times. The first was the most difficult, but most rewarding. 

His vision, that first time, was blurred, blinded and therefore unreliable so he depended on his other senses.

Listening granted him a conjured image of protection. There’s breathing and snoring, and slumbering whimpers all _around_ him. Either side, ahead. He hears them. He is unable to count in the moment- consciousness was a battle he was losing - but he feels that it was _them_. 

Feeling allowed him to exist. Instead of floating, he was anchored down to reality by several things- a duvet and blanket, warm clothes, wound bandages and a grip that caused both their hands to be a little slippery. But she would not let him go, not even as she slept. A pillow supports his heavy head- a definitive upgrade from a cold stone wall. He daren’t move, he hadn’t the reason to. If this was death, it was a comfortable one. If it was life, he was safe. 

Smelling gifted him relief. There were the bodily odours of individuals well-travelled, and perhaps a little unwashed. There was a candle or two burning nearby, and the scent of rain reached him before the sounds of it did. 

Tasting relieved him of dehydration. No more parched tongue, no more coppery saliva. No more rancidity sticking to the back of his teeth from old and fresh vomit. His lips were wet, a little cracked still but not crying out for hydration. 

But what did this truly mean to him? His senses had- have-... do… _will_ deceive him to relieve this agony and solitude and fate so grim he cannot fathom or perceive or admit to being stuck and stalled and abandoned and committed to him without hope or reprieve of escape or relief or- 

The grip squeezes his trembling hand. The expected rattle and clink of metal does not follow either motion. 

No longer is there urine, blood, or excrement foulness assaulting his nose. 

His teeth and mouth - still grimier than he prefers - are free of that rank, dead-air feel that would permeate and infiltrate his throat with each drawn breath. The dry, musty scent no longer coats his gums and nostrils. No more gravel or dust reminding him of the depravity he had to lower himself to. 

Dare he- 

Surely-?

Another sigh breaths next to him - sleepily and warm - and caresses across his skin like a breeze. He remembers a sunlit cliff, overlooking the sea. A specially-crafted parasol sits alien, but welcome, in his hand and on his shoulder, keeping the sunlight from damaging him too closely. Gratitude floods him and his nose tickles with the immensity of that desperately wished-for feeling. 

He was truly out of there.

They came for him. 

They actually- 

His last waking moments were of impossible thoughts. Of feelings overwhelming, so strong and affecting that he couldn’t separate or named them if he tried. 

He thinks he has a smile on his lips as he slips back into that demanding slumber. 

* * *

Essek undergoes the same cycle of terror, followed by distrust, extinguished by cautious hope and finally reinforced by his surroundings several more times. Each foray out of unconsciousness, however, he untethers just a little bit more from that grim reality holding him at bay, desperate to grasp onto something firm and true to hold for _just_ long enough to... 

* * *

The first time Essek truly awakens, he opens his eyes. They are of adamantine and lead-heavy and brutal to shift- but open them he does. 

The light is the first thing to assault him. The second is equally unpleasant. Vertigo nearly sends him reeling- spinning in a directionless limbo as he adjusts to his surroundings with more wherewithal than he’s had previously. He squeezes them shut, barely minimising the needles stabbing into his vision.

“Ez-ek?” A voice, accented - soft and cracked. Familiar through the swarming buzz. _Jester._

It’s enough motivation to brave the dizziness once more. Essek squints and in the dim light, he sees a most wonderful sight. 

She is there- a blurred blob of blue. Her head is haloed in spikes-? _No_ . Her hair sticks out at all angles, bed-addled and unkempt. A flash of white across her face splits and he thinks she’s grinning through her fast babble. The buzzing is… His _head_ hurts. He voluntarily returns to blindness once more.  
  
But it’s _Jester_ . She’s here. He offers back what he feels to be a smile- though his face still feels swollen and unnatural so it may have been merely a twitch- but it’s enough to send her careening into his chest with sobs and he is unable to do anything more than be winded by the force of her excitement, a hard balloon of air forced through his lips, and it isn’t until she’s removed (“Jester _wait_ give him a little-”) that he gains his breathing ability back- 

Except he doesn’t. 

Panic sets in fast as air struggles to reach the depths of his lungs and in a swift moment he’s hoisted up and there’s something _pounding_ on his back his eyes are wide stinging against the weak glow of two- _three_ candles and the dizziness swarms and swims and pulls and drowns the darkness comes succumbs claims now his cheeks are wet and- 

He coughs. And chokes. And spits and wheezes and vomits and retches and gags and - 

What comes out is a splatter of black, blue, and _vileness_ . It is so globular and coagulated that there isn’t any left in his mouth in residue. It sits there - a rancid _clot_ of obscene foulness that was in his _chest_ -!

The blanket is removed hastily from his lap- the regurgitated bile with it. 

The ringing in his ears slows enough to allow him to process Jester’s apologies and his back cracks and aches with newly acquired bruises. His stomach is concave and groaning with the exertion of his heaving and his throat protests at having to accommodate the ejection of something so horrific. His tongue clicks and tuts trying to shave the aftermath of that grievous taste to no avail. He also realises there’s a face in his peripheral speaking at him. It takes effort, but Essek looks around to Fjord. A damp cloth, cool and soft, pats gently at his cheeks and Essek sighs into it. It catches two more stinging tears. 

“Y’alright now?”

With a raspy breaths still calming his pounding heart (and his ribcage _rattles_ ) Essek gives a jerky nod. 

“Want some water?”

Essek is shaking his head before he processes the question. _No,_ nothing in him right now nothing yet just not he _can’t_ \- 

Fjord lowers him to a half-laying position against the headboard, supported by pillows. He hasn’t the energy to hide his wince or pain as his back makes contact. A low effort groan rumbles through him tiredly. 

“Sorry ‘bout that-” he utters, pulling up the duvet to Essek’s shoulders. “Didn’t wantcha chokin’ now.” He sits in a chair and tilts his head. Essek barely manages a hum- hopefully one that came across as grateful. He squints across and Fjord’s expression is unreadable but that might be because Essek’s eyes are a little teary with strain. He’s grateful when a candle is blown out next to them. 

“Ye had us worried for a bit there. Glad to see yer still willin’ to fight.” Essek has no answer to that for by the time he’s understood the words - his mind is still so _foggy_ \- there’s another whispering beside him. 

“Ez-ek- sorry-” It is the meekest of voices and he slowly (achingly) cranes his face to a horrified Jester. She’s still a blur but there’s no mistaking the small, hunched up body language curling in on herself beside him. Her hands cup her mouth, her eyes shine in what little light there is and her voice cracks with each word- 

He wants to reach for her- like he reached for him, but energy fails him and he succumbs once more. 

* * *

Only one candle lit this time, and it is across the room. His vision doesn’t protest as much this time, and for that he is grateful. There is only him on the bed now he is a little sad to see.

A silhouette stands against a dark window, looking out to the pattering rain. Her stance is rigid and taut, a spring waiting to release. No coat sits on her shoulders, but new bandages decorate her otherwise bare arms. Her hair is pulled into a simple tail. Shorter, if he remembers rightly. A little unusual and dressed down for the Cobalt Expositor. He observes her through hooded lids, his arms heavy and lead-like beneath his blanket prison. She turns a little, scratching at the back of her neck. Even in this low light he can see how tense her jaw is. Some emotions play across her face- angry, intense emotions judging by her rising heckles. A flash of lightning catches him off guard with a cry blinding him abruptly sending a searing hot poker through his skull- 

And he succumbs once more to his exhaustion. 

* * *

They talk to him, sometimes. Or around him. At him. Sometimes he’s present for it. Other times fading. 

It’s pleasant. The worlds are garbled and thick, as though listening through the most polluted of water, through the thickest of consistencies. But they are familiar. They’re warm, recognised. Not threatening. 

Essek still wakes up in fear, in pain. He wakes in up in the dark except for two single lit candles- placed strategically away from the bedside.

He had put together not too long ago that he was no longer _there_ . Too often did he have to resituate his mentality away from _there_ upon awakening. The process was becoming easier. Routine. 

But routine made one complacent. He had learned that lesson. He wouldn’t be caught off guard again. No. So he would feign unconsciousness and eavesdrop, desperate for a sign that this _wasn’t_ some sick, crafted fantasy- though if it was, Essek couldn’t be sure if it was by his tormentor’s design… or his own. 

So he would spy. And listen. And wait. And try to find any loophole he could (and equally hoped that he _wouldn’t)._ So far… no such luck. No indicator which way to say if it was truly all real. 

If they were manufactured, then they were admirable hallucinations. True to self... almost. Fjord’s tones were indicative of when they first met, and… and there were two voices he had yet to hear of differing Empire accents. It was an incomplete picture so he couldn’t be sure, but he listened anyway. 

Eventually, he started hearing words. And translating them. And processing them. 

“Tell him-?”

“Can’t-!”

“It’ll-” 

“ _No._ ”

“But he’s-?”

“-nd out eventually.”

“‘S’not fair to him-”

“Let him recover first.”

It was enough. 

It was a conversation they appeared to have on the regular, between different sets of guardians. There appeared to be some rotation or schedule to his warding, as there was always at least one other body in the room. Most often he would feel a warm presence next to him on the bed, clutching his hand beneath the blanket. Sometimes he’d feel those fingers in his hair, sniffles and sighs as she carded through them. Before, he thinks, such an intimate, invasive touch would have sent him flinching and hissing at the contact. Now it was almost something he was not ashamed to admit he craved. Being in solitude for so long had left a mark on him, one that was not visible and that Essek did not want to evaluate too closely. Not yet. Everything was still very hesitantly, shakingly raw. Doubt was still invasive and forefront, and sometimes only the gentle touch and hum of Jester beside him was enough to do away with such thoughts.

Today was not one of those days. There was no indignant huffs or growls of disagreement from her with whomever she was watching over him with- though why she said so little he couldn’t fathom. 

But today he was mostly alone, and for once, he was grateful for that. 

Like a child with their first jigsaw, Essek started piecing together the bigger picture and it eventually became clear what they were afraid of telling him. 

Two did not return from their brazen rescue. Those two voices were absent for a very particular reason, it would seem.

It-

No. 

That would be- 

He’d never dream up something this-

Unless he ...didn't dream it up. 

This was too cruel of a fallout for Essek to have conjured on his own. Even in Essek’s worst-found fears, _he_ was always there staring with cold, blue eyes… judging. Condemning. Dismissing. Perceiving. 

This was the false sense of security Essek had been wary of. The comfort, the familiarity, the … the depth of it all? It was a rouse to lure him in before pulling that rug sharply out from under him. And Essek didn’t have the energy to escape it this time. 

He didn’t realise there could be a worse torment than what he had already endured. Like a mirror that had been spider-webbed with cracks, he fragments just a little more. In a moment where he thinks his guardian for today- ‘Yasha’ - has fallen asleep in the chair near the window, Essek let’s his grief wash over him.

He was so close to being free. So _close_ to being in their care and away from that bricked prison of cold chained tendrils wrapping and constricting, marking and bruising. Of infiltrating needlepoints and sweetly hummed tunes. 

A series of tears escape his haunted eyes, and Essek slinks back to the awaiting dark, hoping for any sense of familiarity with the hell and devil he knows.

* * *

Oblivion erases a lot for him - of that he is grateful. There are gaps in his memory of vague times he’s awoken, only to find himself awakening again with no notion of the in-between. 

Other times it is a curse, and dismisses the wrong thing- such as remembering the cruelty of his ‘reality’ - 

But then it’s brought sharply back into focus when an irate Beauregard loudly lectures at him about muttering ‘depressing shit’. For a few moments, Essek believes she is real… for no one could act as her _that_ accurately. 

His eyes shoot open as she scolds him for thinking they’re not real- and for the first time, his sight is _clear_. 

Previously there were only blurred shapes… which soon evolved to defined blobs. Dim light assigned them colour, and he could then make out stances, poses, positions, movement with more accuracy… but always at the corner of his vision was something _lurking_. Something…. Dark and tendrilled. 

He never noticed it was there, until it was missing. 

And now he stares as Beauregard Lionett huffs and berates him, before her shoulders slump and she collapses in the chair with her head hanging. Her hands come up to cradle it, and Essek ignores whatever voice is telling him this is a lie. She looks so _defeated_. That… that isn’t the Beauregard he knows… and yet…?

He reaches for her- or tries to. The action is strenuous and arduous, succeeding at only withdrawing his arm from beneath the duvet. It flops on top, angled towards her, and is enough to catch her attention. 

“Fuck-!” Essek winces a little at the noise level. “Wh- you- huh.” She settles after a moment, staring wide-eyed. “Hell, you’re looking a little awake today.” He squints at her. She angles her head. “You understanding me alright, Thelyss?”

He gives a nod. 

“ _Damn_. Good shit- good to see you up. A uh, good sign for sure. You gave us a bit of a scare not going to lie- certainly had Jester all in a -” she stops, mouth snapping shut and expression sheepish as she looks left, right, to the window- anywhere but him. “Uh. Yeah. Good to uh- you… you want anything? Water?” 

He nods again, throat parched and scratched. It’s been a slow process, but he has been able to take sips sometimes in these brief interludes of consciousness.

The next few moments are awkward, stumbling, and at any other time Essek would blanch at being in such a… such an _immobile_ state- especially in front of company he knows already _has_ leverage and power over him. But right now, after already being as physically vulnerable as one can be, stripped to his very lowest point… Essek finds that dignity is the furthest thing from his mind. Not even when the water sloshes and spills down his chin clumsily -with hissed, uncomfortable apologies from his carer- does Essek give a damn. He’s licked water from a stone floor- this is far superior of an experience in his opinion. 

And the memory churns his stomach almost immediately. 

To Beauregard’s credit she doesn’t shy away from his retching motion, instead produces a bucket from...somewhere. The water stays down, but he admires her sincerity and quick reflexes. After the wave of nausea passes, he settles back into his pillow and undoes the knot of tension that is his shoulders.

Cautiously, with long looks of ‘are you sure-?’, she replaces the container slowly beside her and retreats to her chair, watching him carefully. 

“Th- ank...you.”

It hurts. Oh, how it hurts. The sandpapered texture that coats his throat scratches at his voice, sending pained scores up through his jaw and temple. But he needed to say it. If this was real, if he was actually out of there… it was because of them. And he would endure a little pain to get across that it is no means underappreciated. 

“Hey, yeah of course man. No problem. Just some water, y’know?”

He shakes his head at her with a weak smile. “For… _me.”_

Essek is too _tired_ to feel ashamed at being so… frail and exposed. Right now the slightly damp sheets and heavy, linen blanket is more luxury than anything Essek used to possess in his shifted perspective. After spending an indescribable length of time shivering and rattling in his own skin, alone and in the dark, this was borderline euphoric- having warmth and comfort.

He watches as emotions flit across her face once more- and he was right, her hair is a little different- before it settles on understanding.“Yeah. It was- well,” she utters. "That place was-...." She stops, and sighs. She wears a serious expression and hold his gaze steadily. “You didn’t deserve that, Essek.” 

Essek’s face and head hurts, but it doesn’t stop his eyebrows rising high at how genuinely she stated it. The last time they had met, she was full of distrust and wariness- quite right too. She blamed him and challenged him and interrogated him while he wore a false face on the deck of their ship. 

Now, they were two adults weighing up the meaning of her words. She truly believed he didn’t deserve _that_. He was rather inclined to agree. 

His throat working up and down again, Essek nods in acknowledgement and projects his grown respect for the woman beside him. She seems to understand and gives a half-smile to him, leaning back in her chair and tapping on the arm of it at random. 

Their silence is companionable, strangely. Until the thickness of something from Beauregard starts to infiltrate it and quash it. Her tapping reaches an agitated crescendo.

It takes - according to Essek’s counting - approximately thirty-two seconds of him staring at her as she fidgets for her to break. 

“Listen, man,” her leg starts bouncing a little. “We- the others don’t really want you to know- Well Jester and Fjord don’t. Caduceus agrees with me. Yasha kinda agrees with me. Veth doesn’t give a shit about - or, well, _anything_ right now- but… there’s something you should probably know.” Her hands clasp together tightly and her pained blue eyes meet his. “It’s… it’s about Caleb…”

The next half hour is quite possibly one of the longest of Essek’s life. 

The duvet may as well be made of lead for all it’s pinning him down now to listen to this harrowing. No longer a comfort to him but a vice, forcing him to hear all of this. 

Beauregard's voice holds strong and resolute as she talks. She tells of coming home to Rosohna, finding him missing. The research, the scrying. Their unimaginable luck at finally getting some information on him. The timeline- she does explain but Essek’s finding it hard to focus on the particulars. She starts to fidget once more. She talks of travelling, of the change in Caleb. Of his resolve and determination. Of his withdrawal. Essek wants the small whirlpool of emotions in his chest and stomach to warm him but they only bring dread. She did not start this tale on a happy tone, after all.

She talks of arrival. Essek was captive somewhere in the north of the empire. A sanatorium, on the outside. It means nothing to him. It was a hell, pure and simple. Belonged to the Assembly, she says with hesitation. Essek had already assumed as much there. This is not news to him but something about hearing its confirmation weighs a heavy stone in his gut.

She speaks of infiltration. There are parts skipped over, he sees the discomfort, hears the hesitation in her words. He sees the rising anger in her body once more. The fury bleeds into her voice of when they found him in a cell deep underground -

And he can see this story from another angle now- his own. What he thought were flashes of twisted, imagined moments were in fact his own memories. Some don’t quite line up- there was no shark-infested sea in the sanatorium after all, but others…

She mentions a medical facility. He remembers the laboratory. He remembers the ceiling with its odd, chemically-stained clouds. The humming tune from far beyond him. The leather bands that cut deep into him, branding him, keeping him, holding him hostage. The hard surface of the table on his back as he slammed into it over and over with wrecked fits and hoarse cries that his body remembers with absolute clarity as he spasms violently then and there and she breaks in her involved story-telling reverie to notice his jerk- he cries out in pain after all after how fast he twists his neck - 

She’s out of her seat in a moment, checking he’s all right before she realises why he reacted so wasn’t because of any external harm. And then a string of curse words in languages Essek cannot even name growl from her thinned lips. He does catch the promise of several murder threats interwoven, however, which does warm him a little as his heart rate calms with rapid, raspy breaths. 

She perches on her chair now, hands clasped tightly once more. They tremble with the force of her own grip.

She picks up where she left off, skirting around more details and practically spitting the words as she recalls what simply sounds like a horrific ordeal and fight. She then mentions… a gift. One that he himself imparted. To Caleb. He nods, remembering. A book? He questions. No, he tells her. It was a _beacon._

She gives him a nonplussed look and gestures at him that ‘no, it was definitely a _book_.’ Essek frowns but cannot argue. He supposes he wasn’t quite in his right mind. He’s so disorientated by this mismatch of information in his mind that he nearly doesn’t catch that there’s a portion of that fight she skipped over. 

But it all comes to a head when she reveals their escape plan- and just how successful it was. And then the cost of it all. 

He reads the sorrow and remorse in her eyes before she even says it. He sees that this weighs so heavily on her that she cannot settle between anger at herself and horror for allowing it. 

There’s something gnarled, and twisted forming in Essek’s gut. It’s barbed and expanding, engorging on all the raw emotion Essek swallows with unfolding explanation of his rescue and devouring it all. It becomes so much that it has to move- consume. Up to his chest, tight and struggling. Up his throat- closed and unsounding. To his head- pounding and whirling unable to parse all that he’s hearing apart from one thing- they’re hurt. They’re hurt from saving him. The whirlpool that had slowly become a maelstrom is engulfed by this new entity. This newborn grief worms its way and burrows so deep into his mind that he cannot think of anything else and merely lets it feed as Beauregard carries on her story. 

The crux comes with her hesitation. 

She slowly, hesitantly confesses that seven left ...but only seven returned.

With four words she pushes the creature of gluttony to its unimaginable limit. With four words that sickly, greedy, insatiable parasite _feasts_ and evolves into such a beast that Essek believes he’ll never be free of it now. It latches on thick and tight, so grotesquely symbiotic in its very nature that separating it from himself now is impossible.

For its name is Guilt, and hearing ‘Caleb didn’t come back’ was enough to cement its presence within Essek’s life. 

The closest that Essek has ever felt to time truly standing still was his first foray into the Dungeon of Penance. Dunamancers before him had enclosed spell upon spell into the site to prevent escape. While he soon enough learned the secrets to navigating such tumultuous feelings, Essek never forgot that murky, soundless feeling of eternity coming to a forced stop. In his many decades of study, nothing had ever come so close to that feeling again -

Until now.

Like he was submerged in that murky, thick, polluted water once more Essek floats on reality, unable to breathe unable to compute or comprehend for the information refuses to be understood and yet the words echo around and around ricocheting in all directions unwilling to let him _not_ hear it and the maelstrom surges once more as roaring deafens his ears and despair threatens to choke him alive-

“How?” is all he can croak. At least he thinks he did. He doesn't know he's not entirely present because Beauregard just told him that Caleb _died_ \- he was dead and hadn't returned and it was because of Essek now he's swimming and dizzy and nauseous and -

Beauregard - full of righteous anger and hurt and pain pauses in her own internal strife to give him what Essek can only describe as a look of despair.

“Because Caleb spent twelve years of his own life locked up in there, Essek. Lost out of his goddamned mind before escaping a few years ago. But he… he still faced that. For _you_.” She looks away but pats his hand- a shaking, fisted knot of a limb- in sympathy, empathy- he doesn't know. He doesn't care. “It just… I dunno, man.” Her voice is thick in her throat, matching the suffocating lump now choking Essek. “It was too fucking much for him or something, in the end. He just didn't ... didn't step in the teleport circle."

It takes a moment of swallowing air and quelling the growing din to grasp at the words- he... but he's not-? He just... 

Caleb was so hurt by rescuing Essek that he- ... that he didn't... couldn't-? _Twelve years-?_ And he still- because of him? 

Essek vividly remembers sitting slumped in that dark room, arms tingling with numbness from being held aloft for so long. He would stare where that door was, willing it to open. _Urging_ it to burst into splinters and for ... for Caleb and the others to be there, smiling down at him with promises of relief and safety and let's-get-you-homes. 

And he got his wish.

Whatever gratitude and relief Essek had been clinging to evaporates in a moment, eclipsed by something far more haunting and permanent. Beauregard's face, her being, the room, reality fades into a twisted distortion as the buzzing returns and haunts his mind-crushing his chest grasping at his hold on the present and giving a grievous heave on it. Guilt envelopes him fully in a crushing embrace and invades his senses. 

Essek retches and misses the bucket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's dour and bleak right now, but we have to hit rock-rock-bottom sometimes before starting to climb up <3 Healing is going to be long, and ongoing for our Shadowhand and M9. Smaaaaall, steady steps.


	4. Out of Alignment

There is a figure in the corner of his room. Tall, thin. Confident. Its silhouette outlines a man in the minimal amount of light that reaches him. The air is thick with silence. It is night time according to the occupants of the house and they all slumber elsewhere. 

But not Essek. And not his guest. 

The man in the corner doesn’t move. Or speak. He just stares at Essek, hungrily. Greedily. Lecherously. There is a predatory feel to how still this individual stays just… watching. Observing. And Essek _hates_ it. 

During one particularly stormy night- there is distant thunder and closer lightning. The curtains are heavy but even then flashes break through the fabric to highlight two perfectly round lenses framing beady, watchful eyes. Essek cries out but his voice is lost to the rolling wave above him. 

The next flash reveals a malicious grin- with straight, white teeth and a promise that Essek was his food to play with how he wished. 

A third streak shines light in those empty eyes… and glints on sharp metal held in his hand. 

The figure does not move this night. He waits in the corner. Watching. Observing. Essek is unsure if his demon salivates, but he imagines he may as well be. 

Essek does not sleep well at all. 

The nights he gets reprieve are when he wakes to find his bed occupied with someone else- Jester. But those were becoming less and less frequent, and Essek was finding a new companion keeping him company in those dark hours. 

On the fourth night, after logic tells Essek it is merely a hallucination and nothing more, he wakes to find no one in the corner. 

Even so, he cannot shake the pressing feeling of a presence nearby, watching his every twitch and nervous shudder. 

* * *

The knowledge that the Doctor- as he’d been told- had essentially been experimenting on Essek was not new to him. Beau and Fjord had paired up for that particular uncomfortable discussion. Taking advantage of one of Essek’s more awakened moments, Beauregard had come in, eyes heavy with exhaustion, hair angled with stress and a stride that meant business and all but toppled a chair as she threw herself onto it. Even then she was perched so far forward-leaning towards him, he feared she would fall. She did not of course, but her general demeanour kept him on edge- particularly after their previous conversation about their...mutual friend. 

She had fired question after question, bombarding Essek with demands for details- no matter how small. How he felt, did he see the poison used- what did it look like. How many doses and when? How were they administered-

A dark and grievous bruise that encompassed most of his upper arm answered that particular question and actually silenced her rapidly with an aggrieved look of apology thrown his way. The rest he could not comment on and the memories were, perhaps thankfully, blurred and disunited. Shining glasses in dimmed, cold light- arcane in nature. A humming, deep voice. Soothing tones and whispers of cooing appraisal as Essek took the latest variant _oh_ so well and what an _excellent_ subject he was so young and virile and **fresh** and a little malnourished but fear not the guards will pay their dues for this disrespect after all the Shadowhand of the _Dynasty_ certainly demands a little more propriety in zeir corner of Vergesson not that it vill matter in the long run but ve don’t vant you to vither just yet oh no I still need my pound of flesh to add to my growing collection oh yes it is nearly perfected you are part of a long, _long_ line of research you should be _proud_ of vhat you vill contribute for it vill certainly be remembered in the history of ze vorld once completed-

Black spots start to spit across his vision as through damp eyes Essek looks up to see a horrified Beauregard and an open-mouthed Fjord hovering over him, two hands on his shoulders -

Essek swallows and tastes salt. 

His cheeks are hot and wet. 

His vision is shaking- no. His _body_ is and breaths rapid, his bruised arm hurts more and there is a pungent tang in the air spiking on his tongue. 

“ _Fuck_ man I’m sor- I didn’t- I just-”

“Beau you might wanna give him some space. In fact go lie the fuck down and get some rest yourself, yer lookin’ like hell. Caduceus is right in limitin’ you.”

Essek watches through calming heaves as Beau just stammers through an argument before swallowing her words thickly. Essek is spared one last glance- filled with pity, he thinks- and she slumps in defeat before tiredly leaving the room - oh. She was already standing. The chair is now toppled. 

Fjord says nothing, watching until the door clicks shut and footsteps echo down the hallway. Essek almost misses them as they’re so quiet compared to the drum-drum-drum of blood roaring in his ears. 

“Sorry about her- she’s a li’l stressed at the moment. Tryin’ ta decipher some books we snatched but it’s a long _long_ process. Our Zemnian is a li’l rusty and well, our resident Zemnian is not exactly with us.” 

Essek’s _companion_ feasts at the mention. 

Fjord’s hands - firm and heavy- leave Essek’s shoulders and he walks to a dresser nearby, pulling out something cotton and dark blue. He rights the chair and pulls it forward to sit, gesturing to Essek. 

“May I?” 

Essek silently follows the direction and finds a dark stain crawling across his upper sleeve- some matching residue on his other hand. That acerbic tang fills the air once more. 

“Ye done hurt yerself a little there in yer panic-” Fjord reaches forth to help unbutton the shirt that Essek is failing to do with shaky hands. As Essek has understood it, both the men had bathed Essek upon return so this wasn’t really anything to be embarrassed about- in fact he was grateful to not have woken up in a grime-covered state. That still doesn’t prevent Essek screwing his eyes shut and pointing his chin skyward as he is divested of his upper attire. The water swishes in the bowl beside them, and he hisses aloud when the cloth makes gentle contact. 

“Sorry-”

“No,” Essek interrupts. “No. I- Thank _you._ This is more than you have to do for me. I can-”

“Thelyss, no offence but you’re about one sea breeze from keelin’ over at any given time. I wouldn’t trust you to hold a spoon right now without cuttin’ yerself on it.” The water is warm and clean, and the repugnant stench of the burst pustules starts to dim. “You had a helluva time in there ‘n’ yeah we didn’t exactly come out unscathed ourselves- but we’re still doing a bit better than you.” Fjord leans in a bit and Essek’s ears twitch. “Ye gotta let us take care of you. If not for your sake, then ours.”

Essek wrestles inwardly with himself for a moment before quietly speaking. “But if it were not for me, Caleb would still be with you all. Here. Where he belongs-”

There’s a creak of the righted chair Fjord sits upon as he leans forward into Essek’s vision, deliberately catching his eye. Reluctantly, knowing Fjord to be persistent, Essek’s gaze flickers back and forth to him. 

“Now let’s clear up somethin’ real quick. Caleb’s a big boy- something I’m sure you’ve noticed- “ Essek flinches and pretends it’s the reapplication of the cloth. “He’s capable of makin’ his own decisions and choices. Caleb led the charge to get you because he knew that - like we all do- you didn’t belong there. Hell, no one does if I should say so,” he mutters, dipping the cloth in water again. “If you wanna play a blame game, let’s just cut the shit and point to the Assembly, okay?” 

Essek disagrees fundamentally but nods anyway. The words were like the water- warm, but stinging and not without pain. For all they mean to cleanse, they cause discomfort instead in the moment. 

He doesn’t ask about the change of voice from Fjord. He is almost sure it is tied to events related to the rescue, but cannot find the strength to hear such confirmation. 

Much like whenever Jester sits with him. 

Jester was becoming a little less of a constant companion. Perhaps her own fear of him was creeping up, or perhaps it was something else, but he was more often than not waking up with an empty space beside him. 

Essek never questioned it- her presence. Not one to typically share resting quarters, there was something very unobtrusive about Jester cuddling beside him. Something comfortable- at least, until reality reminded him of why they were both in this state. 

She would often time her visits now to be when he was ‘resting’ during the day, and once he figured that out, he would pretend to rest for a little longer just to have her stay. It was selfish, and deceitful, but he couldn’t yet face her fully - not now. Not since he learned his imprisonment was the cause for her muteness. 

Seeing the strip of dim-white bandage wrapped so neatly around Jester’s throat caused such an unexpected stab of pain that Essek had injured his own neck attempting to look away from it. He learned - via Caduceus this time- that Jester had also suffered at the end of the Doctor’s ministrations. Another grand meal for his growing demon. 

He was finding this deep-set leech to have another friend, one he was a little more familiar with, if only in the last few months- Shame. 

Shame served him well- until Jester would drag her feet and leave, unable to summon up her usual cheer. The soft click of the door to his bedroom was as much a prison sentence to him as the rattle of his chains may have been. 

He fell back asleep- or as close as he could get- and stirred sometime later. He was relieved to wake to find her nearby once again, though upon his movement she upped and left quietly once more. This wouldn’t do. 

There was that dark part that dark, ugly, what-if part of him that still questioned the validity of all he perceived and if this was still a twisted ruse disguising torment for so far his relief was being slowly eclipsed by pain and shame and guilt and fear- all new damning emotions he hadn’t felt even at the height of his treachery. Essek was almost impressed with how intricate and long-term this delusion was if it were a new form of psychological torment. So far the only discrepancies were Caleb’s absence, Veth’s suggested absence, Fjord’s accent and the inability to act and predict as Jester. Yet once more Essek finds himself musing that the chaotic elements that form the basis of the Mighty Nein working in their favour for who could genuinely imitate these individuals who themselves rarely had a plan between them and even if they did it rarely went right at least so he’d heard but then they _had_ rescued him they went in with a singular goal and came out with him but not with Caleb but why not Caleb would that be because that would be the tipping point, the glaring error in this demented illusion that Essek would see right through immediately with his studied knowledge of the Empire-born man and this was recognised and thus he was removed from the scenario altogether? If this was so then perhaps Caleb was truly still well and all right and with the Mighty Nein… but the flipped side of that accursed coin was that Essek was still chained still held still bound and damaged, alone and abandoned-

And Essek selfishly, almost desperately, wishes that the possible illusion is real. Greedily he presses his logic into fitting this new atmosphere and environment into what it represents- an end to his previous hell. 

And that _insatiable_ leech devours all of the unburied guilt with that admission. 

For if Essek is free, then Caleb is really alone and yet Essek cannot wish for the opposite to be true. Not- He cannot- not again- 

His rest is tumultuous that night. The figure creeps closer.

Jester does not join him. 

* * *

He wears a blindfold now. 

It’s hardly that, he corrects. More a simple strip of cloth- soft and not too tightly bound. With his increased wakefulness, they were finding it a slow adjustment to the light again. As a drow elf, his race had biological inclination towards the dim and darker ends of the light spectrum already. As someone fresh out of a lightless hell, his eyes were strained and needed rehabilitation to luminosities he could previously withstand comfortably. 

It was Yasha’s idea- the blindfold. She saw that the weakest of candlelight and lamplight still caused him discomfort yet leaving him in complete darkness was objectively worse. 

With caution and care she brought forth a solution, asking permission to fix the blindfold around his eyes. His first few moments had been in a panic, and she pulled it away hurriedly but he grasped her arm and whispered to try again. 

The dark was a little better when _he_ was the one controlling it. 

The way Beauregard had spoken about it, his was the darkest room in the Xhorhaus right now. With a single oil lamp flickering in the far corner on a dresser, the haloed glow just visible through his cloth, Essek could believe that. She did comment that it wasn’t the _most_ depressing room though. Seemingly that honour went to a room at the end of this upstairs corridor- where Veth had holed herself away in. Essek had yet to venture outside of this room- something he went back and forth on whether he wanted to or not. 

He was relieved, in some twisted sense of the word, that only one had not come back and that it was of his own choice. It was a hollow relief- for the Nein were fractured with this, and Veth in particular seemed to be handling it very poorly. He had yet to see her - even in passing his door during the day when it was open. He guessed this to be a deliberate choice on her behalf and Essek assumed the most obvious answer; she blamed him for Caleb not returning. 

He did too. Fjord’s talk was a balm on a wound that was not going to heal from such medicine. He imagined eventually she was going to see him and he was looking forward to her anger. He deserved it. He deserved her ire for a lot of things, he had realised. This was just the latest, and possibly one of the most grievous. He would trust that anger to be real. He suspected the rest held some modicum of blame for Caleb’s absconding on Essek- for if Essek hadn’t been selfish all those years ago he wouldn’t have been a loose end and therefore an Assembly target. But then they didn’t _have_ to come rescue him, he would argue. But he was selfish and he was glad that he did. He had prayed that they would, in fact. He had desperately _wished_ for them to risk themselves into harm’s way for him. No matter which way he twisted it, it was all his fault and Caleb was out there vulnerable in danger- 

But he’s a big boy, Fjord had said. He can make his own decisions. 

And round and round he went. 

* * *

There is a shadow looming a few feet from Essek’s bed this night. Essek does not open his eyes. He cannot. The blindfold lays in a neat pile on his bedside table, unable to protect him. But he _knows_ . He knows that opening his eyes will reveal shining lenses and a sharp scalpel in hand. Essek _feels_ the predative gaze leering down at him as he curls deeper into his blanket. 

That same presence taunts him the next night. 

Rest escapes Essek in these lonely hours. 

* * *

They had books for him- a few from their starter library and a couple more picked up from their rare trips to the market. Nothing scintillating or exciting. Certainly nothing Essek would deign to read voluntarily. But with his blindfold it was a little tricky to read the words, and none here could successfully read Undercommon. Fjord had given it a decent attempt once- stammering and stumbling over the letters and shapes. Essek appreciated the effort, truly. He knew they were bored and cooped up just as he was but they were still trying to provide some mental stimulation for him. 

Beauregard stormed in for her ‘shift’ with him one afternoon, took one look at the growing pile of literature on his bedside table and groaned in frustration. Throwing herself harshly into the rocking chair in the far corner- the one usually favoured by Yasha- she had cradled her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. 

Essek daren’t ask the source of these moods, and they would sit in uncomfortable silence until one - or both- of them were wrested into an uneasy sleep. 

Essek’s state of mind varied from hour to hour. Now approaching two weeks hence (he was told) since their rescue, Essek was making great strides in his healing- at least according to Caduceus. He had yet to look again at the sores and pustules and other foreign entities dying on his skin but he was assured they were coming along nicely. Essek felt his skin crawl with every check-up. 

Talking starts to come a little more naturally to Essek. He practises small words, little, easy sounds in his native tongue. They don’t come as fluently as they once did. They are stilted. Injured. Fractured. His throat agonises- but it hurts less and less over time. Even through his blindfold, he sees the winces of whomever he practises with when he trips over a simple sentence.

He’s able to lift and drink a half-full cup of water with little aid now. He shakes and trembles when he does, and someone needs to pass it to him first, but he can accomplish this most basic of tasks again. It’s a relief to have some visual evidence of his recovery and he can feel strength returning bit by bit. 

He’s grateful- that it was them that came for him. He is sure if it were the Dynasty that had rescued him then his hospitalisation would be far more clinical and cold. The care would be the best available, but it would lack the warmth he has here. 

Also, the return of the Shadowhand after being stolen away to an Assembly stronghold would be the most awful of political mires to navigate if not outright inciting war again. That was something they all agreed between them needed to be avoided at all costs. 

So apart from the people in this house- no one knew Essek was alive and … _here._

The necklace around his throat hangs loose and innocent. There is a small pad of cloth at the back of his neck separating cord from skin as there was still a chafed patch there from the _last_ amulet he had borne. It prevents his location from being revealed and he finds bitter irony in what once kept his friends from finding him was now the one thing keeping him safe. There were other amulets procured - and he believed them to be passed around the group depending on what they were doing, but not enough to cover all. It may be a fruitless task at this point to expect their pursuers to not know their location, but Essek finds he hasn’t the energy or effort to be paranoid. So he wears the necklace and finds a little comfort in the weight resting on his sternum. 

He doesn’t leave the bedroom. They offered him a bath- he declined, simply wiping himself down in private. The sheets were a little soaked and cold after, but he covered it with his blanket and pretended to be fine. 

He hadn’t tried standing yet. Not again. Not after - 

The first - and only attempt- occurred nine days after his rescue. With help from Fjord, Essek uncovers his legs and swings them around. Even slowly, with help, he finds himself reeling at the motion and then staring at how _thin_ his legs were in these drowning clothes.

Essek was never a stocky-built man, but even this gave him severe pause. His arms were also wiry and gaunt- and yet despite this some days felt like lead to even lift. 

But with gentle support and pulling from Fjord, as though teaching a child to simply stand, Essek scarcely made it a few inches from the mattress before vertigo claimed him and his vision spun. 

He was becoming very familiar with yet another ceiling. 

Caduceus, guardian and watcher, claimed a little more time, some more gentle rejuvenation, slow exercise, and healthy eating would help tackle this. Essek sips another of his teas and nods in reserved silence. 

How far he has fallen. 

How low he had been chained. 

How lucky he was to be free. 

The downside to Essek’s recovery was greater periods of lucidity and wakefulness. Now that he wasn’t on death’s door (so he’d been told) Essek was starting to be left alone a little longer- a double-edged sword he was immensely grateful for, and growing increasingly abhorrent of. 

Alone meant he didn’t have to avoid their gazes or pretend everything was well. Alone meant he could stew and dwell in peace. Wallowing wasn’t something Essek typically had time for _before_ , but away from everything that made him _him_ , it was all he was good for at the moment. 

And Essek despised it. 

Inactivity never suited him, but his circumstances right now called for little else. He found himself chafing at the ingratitude of having this problem compared to where he was, but when left alone with his thoughts- with the reality that because of him, his actions and desires, someone he … cared very much for was now alone and cut off from his Den. 

In the ... _Sanatorium_ , the darkness had been his companion- constant and consuming. Like a vacuum, it held him close, pressed on and around him with no escape. Here, his companion was internal and permanent. No relief from a ravenous creature such as Guilt. The longer he wallowed, the more demanding it became. 

Fjord and Caduceus were tame visitors. They were relaxed and casual, making polite talk about their day. He was beginning to prefer their company very rapidly. Essek didn’t feel as judged then. He felt cared for, he wasn’t made to feel ashamed of his current state. Except for when Caduceus would roll back his sleeves and admire the pustules grotesquely deflating over time on his skin. 

Essek’s sense of smell was a little tarnished from working in a laboratory for so many decades. While it wasn’t lost completely, it was certainly muted- something he was oft-thankful for when working with certain alchemical mixtures. As a result, Essek found himself able to tolerate a lot of what would previously have been very unpleasant concoctions. 

But the first time he truly saw the grievous abominable deviations on his otherwise untarnished skin, Essek was very grateful to be able to scramble for his bedside bucket- an item that was seeing a little too much traffic for Essek’s comfort. 

They were ugly and offensive, obscene in their nature and Essek’s nausea roiled at the remembrance of them. 

He now looked away whenever Caduceus checked over him. 

The truly repulsive moments were when Essek would move or shift and _feel_ the little putrid lumps against his leg or clothes or _anything_ it made contact with. 

Essek had never wanted out of his own body so fast. 

To say there was a disconnect between Essek’s mind and his physical form was an understatement. His skin felt foreign to him, his movements alien and far away. For all his mind was clearing, Essek had never felt so … so out of _time_ and synchronicity with his own person. His head would scream and cry out for rest and sleep, and his body would refuse that simple request. He would have to wait until fatigue dragged him under to get such a luxury- and even that was uneven and fickle. His dreams were semi-lucid and wholly nonsensical. They whispered of unreality, of illusions and deception. Of how he had never left that cell and his mind was completely lacerated and mangled. Rotted and splintered. 

Essek would argue. Or at least he thinks he would. He would cite his physical experiences and healing as proof otherwise. 

The void would always counter, and Essek was left without an answer. 

It was after waking up from a particularly distorted ‘dream’ that Essek was being cared for by Caduceus that morning. Perhaps taking a kind advantage of Essek’s disorientated state, he had pried a little into Essek’s mindset… and Essek gave it up willingly. He spoke of the disconnection, the divorce between mind and matter. He spoke of nonsense and fear and tremors and disbelief. It was like a dam that had been cracking and weakening and now the flooding threatened. 

Caduceus had let the water rage and seep a little, not interrupting Essek in his growing distress. It was not until he asked a simple, innocent, innocuous question did he fully stopper the threatening deluge. 

“Have you tried casting anything?”

Essek had frozen so quickly that his vision swam to catch up. Sitting upright in bed, sheets strewn and tossed in his active explanation, Essek stared straight ahead. 

Magic. 

It used to be all he knew- all he would study and think about. Even when working in the political maze of the Royal Court his mind would be running calculations and experiments and what-ifs. 

Now those allocated mental chambers remained empty and unused. No arcane simulations echoed. No dunamantic theories or developments filled his spare thoughts. 

The Dark had stripped him of all that he knew and identified with. He had been reduced to something resembling a man and nothing more. Broken and disjointed, the Mighty Nein were now trying to piece him back together bit by slow, broken bit. 

And now one of his biggest building blocks was missing. 

Essek knew that Caduceus did not mean harm by his questioning- he was curious, seeing where Essek’s recovery was at. Essek did not fault him this. Regardless, it did not stop the flinch, the freeze, nor the frown that crept over Essek’s face. His jaw hurt with how hard he clenched his teeth. 

The answer was ‘no’. Essek had not tried to cast anything. Memories- suffocating and imminent - choked any verbal component Essek would attempt to summon. Too many moments in that cramped, limiting cell of endless void where Essek would cry out and yell and scream and whisper and pray for any of his spells to work. Word after arcane word he would form until his throat dried and his soul cried when not even a familiar spark flickered at his askance. 

Guilt was overshadowed by something far more menacing- something far more quiet, foreboding, and threatening.

Fear. 

The Fear of Failure loomed over Essek always in one way or another but never has it had such an imposing, _present_ presence in his day to day life. The immediate thought of casting a spell sent such a pit forming in his stomach that the _idea_ of spellwork made him nauseous. He was not ready to answer that question. He was not ready for the possible knowledge that he was now truly, _fully_ broken as a person and all that he had been was consumed in its entirety in the Sanatorium. 

Some- or all- of this must have played across his face for there was soon a large hand patting his arm gently and a kind, deep voice saying that it was all right. These things take time. 

Essek imagines it was supposed to be comforting but it felt more like condemning. 

Logically, Essek knew that his magic was learned, not inherent. The…that _man_ who had stolen his blood and violated him with concoctions would not have been able to siphon away his magical talents. He _knew_ this. Logically. But nevertheless those broken, wretched moments in the cell, with bound hands and dignity lost, when he would call upon his reserves and nothing happened… they stayed with him. They wrapped around his throat like a noose preventing any word from escaping now whenever Essek thought about it. 

He knows what it feels like now- to not have that familiar tingle and electric spark that signified his magic. That buzz and hum he was so used to being around him as he levitated gone- just silence followed him now. Essek desperately wanted that back- but he was not willing to risk failure. Not now. Not yet. If ever. Instead, he would lay awake as the house around him settled again and his guardians and saviours - his friends - fell into their own restless slumbers. 

He would succumb, eventually. Recovery is exhaustive and his energy levels depleted on the regular. No longer watched over day and night - his door remained closed over for his own privacy but not fully just in case they needed to hear him- sometimes Essek’s sole companions in those quiet hours were his churning thoughts, and the shadowy figure lurking nearby.

Sleep was difficult more often than not, despite his tiredness. 

The nocturnal demon drew ever closer with each night.

* * *

Yasha is his least favourite guardian. Not because he dislikes the woman, no. In fact he felt a bit of a kinship, a shared, mutual experience in solitude that was turned upside down by the Mighty Nein. He had not had the time to fully engage with her on the matter as he may have once been tempted to, but now all such thoughts were overturned by the shame shadowing him. 

What made her his least favoured companion was her silence. She never demanded conversation of him, never invaded his mindset or present thoughts. She would sit in a chair, on the far side of the room near the window, and be silent. Occasionally a book occupied her hands- through the linen cloth he couldn’t always make out details or titles but it was often dark leather, a little ragged on the edges. Full pages as though things were pressed or held between bulking it up. A book full of love, and memories. 

This was all harmless. And she was a careful tender- if nausea threatened him or fever encroached but never peaked (and these waves were slowing to a more predictable, less deadly rate) then she would wipe his brow, be ready with a bucket. She tended to a couple more of the _exposed_ moments that Essek had no control over in these states without word or judgement, but Essek couldn’t see beyond the heat of his own cheeks in these times. She would carefully, gently, change his sheets, allow him to clean himself up and offer him an autonomy that he had once taken for granted before… well, _before_. Typically Caduceus and Fjord helped with this- but they were out, at his understanding. 

And she did all this kindness in deadly silence. 

And it wasn’t a pregnant silence, he was annoyed to realise. It was one of patience. Understanding. _Space_. 

Somehow she - this curious woman from the Xhorhas moors - had more insight into Essek’s moods than he did. 

He didn’t _want_ space (he did). 

He wanted to be left alone (he did not). 

He wanted clarity (he already had it). 

He wanted damning (they refused).

He didn’t deserve this kindness (he received it anyway).

He was scared it was real (and equally fearful it wasn’t). 

He couldn’t admit any of this (they would listen). 

His guilt was greater than his gratitude (and his shame of this fact to tip the scales over). 

And she somehow knew this. Her silence was safer and more open than any time he had been left on his own. 

And he despised it. 

Like a perfect pendulum, Essek swung between mindsets. One hour he wished all of this to vanish and stop leaving him in a state of disclarity and doubt. The next he clung to it like his only lifeline pulling him from those shark-infested depths and keeping him aloft. 

He dreaded night times now. Without Jester- or anyone - watching over him, his phantom haunted him in delirium. Encroaching ever closer to where Essek rested night by night, he would lay there bound by clean sheets and his body unable to move. He daren’t look. He daren’t open his eyes. It mattered not. That shivering in his proprioception alerted him to something Wrong nearby. Something Threatening and Hunting. It was looking for _him_ . It hungered for _him_. And its form was as rail-thin and careful as his torturer. Armed with a tool of surgical precision, thin lips would stretch over those gleaming white teeth. A hummed tune would follow and let Essek know just how close this entity lurked. 

It was on the twelfth night when his eyes shot open to see a blade coming for his neck. 

Essek cries out in panic and tumbled from the bed. He crawled- angry, frustrated, demented, _tired_ to the window and heaved through clenched teeth as he pulled himself up to the window sill. He grabbed curtain fabric, threatening to buckle the rail upon which it hung. 

Escape _escape_ he needed to- 

He looks over his shoulder, breathlessly. 

The figure stands at the bedside still where Essek had fallen through him. In horror, he watches as the neck twists and turns almost mechanically to look at where Essek holds himself. The grin distorts wider and sharper than ever before and the scalpel - larger than a formidable dagger- shines in less-dark coming through the parted curtains. 

How could this be real? The view beyond is bleak and clouded. No skyline recognisable to him- no generated cityscape to be familiar with and point out details. This state he is in, this weakness and vulnerability...He was Essek Thelyss, the Shadowhand of Rosohna, Prodigy of Dunamancy and he is pushing open a window into a torrential downpour. 

The wind sends him careening backwards and he had not the strength to resist. He crashes to the floor with a groan and his bruised arm is set back in its healing, he is sure. Nevertheless he sets his jaw and heaves himself up once more. 

The gale catches and flutters his loose-fitting shirt around him. His hair- long and thin now, unkempt to his previous standard despite Fjord’s attempt at hygiene for him- whips across his vision violently. He looks behind him again.

The figure, the Doctor, keeps his head still in space as his body rotates around in a grotesque manner. The blade flashes keen once more and that rictus grin promises pain. 

He looks down. 

It was not far- or not as far as he would like. It was not his tower after all. But it would provide answers- that ground. 

If all of this were a dream, a ruse and hoax, then hitting that ground would accomplish nothing -or end this damning simulation. If all of this were real- then he would (should) be able to levitate to safety. Hell had throttled him of his magic- but if he were truly free then so was his ability to manipulate the arcane. Bandaged fingers twitched as they grew cold at this open. If this were real and he still couldn’t cast… then it would be an escape either way, for what was he without his magic? 

The wind pushes him back once more, almost as though attempting to prevent this. 

What was the use?

He hears a footstep behind and knows his time has run out. He will not fall prey to that _monster_ again. 

Heaving with great exertion Essek calls upon the last of his strength to lean out the window. His vision tips, his feet leave the unfeeling floor and the wind is trying to cradle him but it matters not and he closes his eyes calling upon words more familiar to him than his own name- 

With a jerk, Essek is forced backwards into the room and to the floor in a heap. A loud bang startles him and a massive silhouette stands now between him and the closed window. 

“What are you _doing?_ ” it demands. 

Winded, breathless, confused, and witless, Essek reorients the last few seconds in his mind only to look up and find a partially undressed Yasha before him. She towers over him, a fearsome sight to behold and he says nothing. He _has_ nothing. Panting he struggles to sit up and massages his aching shoulder- only to spin around to where his nightmare had stalked- 

Two more figures stand between the door and bed but neither are the Doctor. 

His body is breathing for him as his head spins and sense is distorted. He presses palms into his eyes and they come away wet- 

He jumps at creaking floorboards but it is Fjord crouching beside him. Yasha still stands between him and the window and he will not escape now-

“Essek what were you trying to _do?”_ a voice from his right and it’s Beauregard but he hears that she already has an answer. ‘It is not what you might think-’ he wants to say. 

But that wouldn’t be true. 

Instead the words “Testing my magical capabilities,” spits from his mouth and the half-truth tastes ashen on his tongue. 

The silence is only interrupted by a gale passing outside and shuddering the pane. Small footsteps pad behind him and Essek stills on the floor. No one else reacts or jumps to his defence as two gentle arms loop around his chest from behind and a whimpering head leans on the back of his. He stares emptily at the floor before him before raising one hand to clutch Jester’s trembling ones. 

How low he had fallen. How much lower he could have gone. 

He twitches as her tears make contact with the back of his neck, but he makes no move to pull away.

“Testin’ yer magical capabilities,’” Fjord repeats back from Essek’s left. A sigh tickles Essek’s cheek in some mockery of the wind outside and Essek closes his eyes. Shame clings on tightly, crawling up his spine with increasing haste. He hears the scritch as Fjord drags a hand over his weary face. “I don’t think ye gotta worry yerself about that,” and he pulls gently at Essek’s free arm for attention. Following reluctantly, Essek looks up and around to where Fjord points. 

What used to be the dresser was now a warped version of one. The corners had been pulled internally, the legs bending at unnatural angles. The contents had been distorted and upended out as the drawers they were once held in protruded forth in a mid-projectile manner. 

An unlit lamp rests toppled on the floor some feet away.

“We heard a ruckus in here ‘n’ came chargin’ in only to find you half-climbin’ out the window. What _happened?”_  
  
“Yeah man, what freaked you out so much? Why’d you destroy the furniture?”

Essek had no answer as the questions faded around him into a buzz. A hum. A familiar electric tingle that started at his fingertips. Dumbfounded he pulls away from Jester gently- not an easy feat with how tightly her fingers had interlocked in front of him. She gives, with a sniffle, and he pats her hand awkwardly but he needs- 

He crawls a foot, separating him from the crowd around him only to come prostrated before Yasha. He looks up silently, a plea in his eyes. She searches him, eyes roaming his expression and he almost believes she will deny him- before she steps aside. 

In a mirrored, calmer recreation of the events just occurred, Essek hoists himself up to the window sill. It exhausts him, having expended a lot of his energy in a blind panic already, but he does it and feels the sweat beading on his forehead, meandering down his back. 

Clutching that vermaloc panel, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached, Essek rests his weight on his own two feet and his knees tremble. 

His breathing is unbecoming in grunts and groans of him reaching his physical limit… but he only needs to do this _once._

Spinning on the spot in a reckless manoeuvre, Essek finds himself looking back into the room. Yasha is nearby, arms hovering as though to catch him. Jester and Fjord look at him from where they kneel on the floor. Her expression is heartbroken and wondrous. Fjord’s a mixture of pride and concern. He is nodding though. Beauregard has stood up, also taking a step towards him but keeping her distance. 

Caduceus is in the back near the door, leaning as heavily on it as Essek does the window sill. He gives Essek a single nod. 

The Doctor stands not a foot away from Caduceus, lenses obscuring, scalpel flashing dangerously as it twirls back and forth slowly in careful fingers. That lascivious smile stretches too-wide and Essek growls. 

With one last glance at the deformed dresser, Essek reaches deep for that reserve of power. What had been a well of magic for him to tap into, he had feared had dried and evaporated. It turns out that well had become a false grave only and with determination, he plunges deep into it to reach that arcane pull. He searches and wades through. Falling deeper and deeper within himself Essek heaves as he stretches forth, feeling for that familiar spark- that -

_There!_

A word more common to him than his own name sounds on his lips and his hands take a leap of faith to leave the sill. They flicker in a familiar motion, something as natural to him as breathing, and he starts to collapse-

But he never reaches the floor. 

As though a harness, comfortable and fitted, wraps around him, Essek feels his trembling feet ascend. His abdomen curls as his knees slowly come towards his chest and he quickly scrambles for the wall - the window - _anything_ to straighten up. Taking a few moments to gather his bearings once more, he assumes that practised pose and holds his head aloft. 

He opens his eyes, and his fingers twitch with the current coursing through his veins once more. 

Only five people look back at him now, and they all smile in relief.  
  
Essek smiles back, and it feels genuine.   
  
It all feels real. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Essek to figuratively (and literally) lift himself up. Let's get this healing properly started, yo. 
> 
> As always, big thank you and shout out to my mate and beta, Achilles!!
> 
> And of course to you, reader, for being patient and waiting for me as life goes on <3 
> 
> Also I'm not saying that 127 spurned me back into getting back to this story but it absolutely spurned me in getting back to this story.


End file.
